


The way I do

by AthingcalledR



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, Forever and Always - Team StarKid, Nightmare Time - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, At least that was the plan, F/M, Fake Divorce AU, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Spoilers, You've heard of Fake Dating AU, but still spoilers, gonsta be some violence, nightmare time, now get ready for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 57,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthingcalledR/pseuds/AthingcalledR
Summary: MAJOR NIGHTMARE TIME EP.2 SPOILERS - DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT AND INTEND TO AT SOME POINTIn which a different man makes a different decision.
Relationships: Paul Matthews & Emma Perkins, Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins, Xander Lee & John McNamara
Comments: 116
Kudos: 58





	1. Perfect Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty hefty spoilers in this one, to the point that I don't think it'll make any sense without the context. And I'm not gonna give any just in case someone clicked on this by accident - if you have, I suggest not reading any more hehe  
> I watched the digital ticket earlier today and my brain immediately asked "What if?", so I thought I'd strike while the iron was hot. There's no Nightmare Time fandom tag yet so I just tagged the Hatchetfield musicals because of the characters I intend to use, but it's probably gonna be quite far removed from the episode anyway. But still - spoilers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emmas pressured Paul to choose.

Paul pushed Emma and she staggered backwards, tripping over in shock. She twisted as she fell, breaking her fall with her outstretched hands before her face could collide with the floor. She looked back at the now screaming man, terrified.

Emma watched in horror as he plunged the knife into that… _thing’s_ face. Then its neck. Then its chest. Over and over, until its hands slipped from the man’s shoulders, arms falling slack by its sides. Its head tilted back.

Paul yanked the knife out and let it fall to the ground.

An empty mess of torn skin and wire.

 _“Fuck,”_ Emma cried out, unable to contain it. Her own mangled face stared back at her with vacant, mismatched eyes. She couldn’t tell which was worse – that, or the gaping hole between them, from which tiny sparks were beginning to shoot out with a faint crackle. Emma tore her eyes away from the carcass, fixing them instead on Paul’s shaking frame. His eyes were frozen wide, fingers still locked in a death grip around the knife held slightly away from his body. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked to be just a couple of seconds away from total collapse.

Emma wanted to say something – what, she didn’t know – but before she had the chance, Paul turned towards her, his face still contorted with fear. The knife still in his hand.

Her eyes darted between the two.

He looked unhinged enough.

The slow relief that had begun to spread across the back of her mind since the double’s body fell was immediately extinguished. In its place, dread consumed her.

In a fit of desperation, Emma kicked herself away from him, scrambling backwards until her back was pressed flat against the wall. The only exit was just a few short feet away, if she acted fast-

A loud yet muffled thud snapped her attention back to the looming shadow before her. His hands were now empty, and the knife lay abandoned on the ground. She looked back at his face. The panic was etched into every feature, but his eyebrows had knitted together in concern. Paul raised his trembling palms.

“I-I’m not gonna hurt you, I _swear,_ ” Paul soothed in a quivering voice. He sank to his knees, never breaking eye contact.

Emma clutched at her chest and released a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding. A wave of dizziness washed over her as oxygen flooded back into her lungs. “Holy shit, dude, you fucking scared the crap out of me!”

Paul gasped out a scared, strangled laugh. “Sorry,” he breathed, trying and failing to stop his hysteria. The seemingly deranged man kept giggling, even as he scooted himself over to sit beside Emma, leaning against the wall. For a minute, she was somehow even more creeped out than before, but his laugh was infectious, and the adrenaline coursing through her was wearing thin. It didn’t take long for her to join in.

“Man, what the _fuck-_ ” she asked, still giggling, “-are we supposed to do now?” She stared at the corpse, and the need to laugh grew stronger. Beside her, Paul wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Honestly, I have no clue,” he chuckled. They looked at one another, smiles fading. The new-found novelty was beginning to wear off as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t long before the only sound in the room was the electrical buzz of the machine lying in the centre of the room. They both stared at it. The sparks were glowing a little brighter than they had been before, and what had been an inconsistent burst every second or so had developed into a relentless torrent, spilling out of the once-woman in a liberal stream of white and blue.

They watched, not saying a word.

It dawned on Emma – and not for the first time – that she knew nothing about the man next to her. The shivering man, who saved her life. Who seemed to know her on an impossibly intimate level.

Who had loved her enough to marry her.

And what did she know of him? She rattled off the pathetically small list in her mind.

He was a geek. He didn’t like roleplay. He lived in an apartment. He couldn’t hold his liquor.

He married her.

And, to make things worse, a being that seemingly made most, if not, _all_ the same decisions as her… agreed to it.

There was no obvious way of proceeding. The only thing they could do became clear when the fake-Emma’s ripped shirt was ignited by a stray spark. The fire was small, but immediately started spreading across the rest of its chest.

Emma’s voice came out more deadpan than she intended. “We should go.” She sensed Paul nod beside her, and slid her back up the wall until she could stand, before stepping around the metal corpse and making her way to the exit. It wasn’t until she reached the door that Emma realised Paul wasn’t beside her. She looked back to see him crouched down beside the fire. He was shoving something inside his pocket with one hand as the other reclaimed the knife. She waited patiently; he muttered something about evidence as he joined her.

Emma turned to leave when Paul caught her arm. She yanked it away from him instinctively, but felt slightly sorry upon seeing his apologetic face. He started speaking before she had the chance to open her mouth.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… do you think we should… I don’t know, call the fire brigade?” He jerked his head back at the flames, which had started spilling onto the hotel’s greying carpet. Emma didn’t have to answer; right on cue, the sprinklers spurted to life and the fire-alarm blared, but it was only a couple of seconds before the water was reduced to no more than a pitiful dribble, stopping completely after another few seconds. It didn’t matter, with all the noise, people would still be on their way. Emma gazed into the fire, which remained unbothered by the the brief shower. If left for long enough, she doubted anyone would be able to recognise what must surely end up as a pile of steel, at least, not as _her_. It would just look like some faceless robot, a failed science experiment, destined to become some stupid local legend – the Hatchetfield Android, or some shit like that.

“No. We have to leave.” She wrapped her hand around his wrist and dragged him out into the hallway, unsure of where to go next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope anyone reading this picks up what I'm putting down. I'll explain more about the changes that I'm making in this fic to what happened (there's gonna be a few, hehe) in future chapters, but it might take a while because I have a holiday coming and I kinda want to focus more on a fic I already have going. Hope you like it! (And I pray that posting this doesn't spoil it for anyone, that would be awful).


	2. Mushroom Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving some first-aid, Emma must decide what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming anyone this far in isn't worried about spoilers, so I'm gonna take this opportunity to say that I'm not gonna be including Time Bastard stuff in this fic (maybe tiny references, idk) and Paul is original Paul, not a clone. Also, when ep.3 comes out, I won't include stuff from that either (again, maybe tiny references, but no spoilers). I wrote this chapter drunk so I hope it's fine.

“ _Ouch!_ Be careful back there, Jeez…”

That was the third time Paul had accidentally yanked her hair, and Emma was starting to get pissed. She shifted uncomfortably on the floor, trying to lean as far away from him as possible. A hand on her shoulder pulled her back to where she had been before, and a knee nudged her arm.

“Y’know, if you keep moving, this is only gonna take longer,” Paul muttered, pinching the tweezers to pull out yet another small shard of glass. Emma huffed in annoyance and tucked her knees into her chest. It was awkward not being able to lean back, but she was acutely aware that if she did that, the back of her neck would be only a few inches away from his crotch, and they really weren’t there yet.

Emma wasn’t sure how long she could stay in that apartment, surrounded by creepy pictures of memories that weren’t hers. The worst one was almost directly in front of her, perched on top of a bookshelf by the far wall. A happy couple, donning beautiful clothes and proud smiles, gazing into each other’s eyes with adoration, surrounded by friends and family and confetti. Her dress was perfect… she hated that.

The wedding she never dreamed of. And the most sickening part was somehow not that her life had been stolen from her and lived in completely the wrong way, but that Emma was forced to see herself contented and downright _jovial_ about a fate that repulsed her. Emma Perkins did not want to get married… right?

No. No, no, no, she didn’t. That hunk of junk couldn’t possibly be an exact copy of her, of course there would be differences. Emma knew who she was. _Emma._

Not Jane.

_Fuck that fucking toaster for making me think about the fucking future._

The bitterness stewing inside her fortunately helped pass the time, and before she knew it, Paul was delicately running his fingers through her hair in search of any last pieces of broken door he had missed. It felt disturbingly nice, to the point that Emma suddenly recalled her words from just a couple of hours before. _“I’ve bought the car, I wanna look under the hood.”_ Admittedly, part of her was still curious, but something about watching a guy repeatedly stab a fake-you and then appear on the verge of also murdering the _real_ you is kind of a turn-off. The whole situation was too complicated – all she needed was her stuff back, then she could be back on the road as soon as possible. Emma had seen enough of Hatchetfield to last her a lifetime.

Paul’s fingers withdrew from her scalp. “All clear,” he confirmed, offering a hand to help her up. Reluctantly, she took it. Her back was still throbbing, and her whole body had started to feel stiff. She mumbled her thank you as she stood, but it was harder than she anticipated. Sensing her struggle, Paul’s hand found her elbow, guiding her off the floor and staying there until she was sat in the spot on the couch that he had just vacated. Without another word, Paul took up the glass-filled bowl he had placed on seat beside her and turned towards the kitchen. Emma stared at her own hands as he dumped the contents into the trash and placed the bowl in the sink. She felt his eyes rest on her for a moment before he spoke.

“If you want to change your shirt, there are clothes here in your size.” Startled, Emma glanced down. She had completely forgotten about the blood, the taste of which still lingered on her teeth. The pain flashed across the side of her tongue where she had bitten it as she gave an experimental flex. “Or you can take a shower, if you want. I know it’s a little late, but…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Emma shook her head. “Not right now.” She desperately wanted one, but there was very little energy left in her; dying of a brain haemorrhage from slipping and hitting her head would be just her luck after a night like that. A crappy death in a crappy town.

Emma took to staring at that dreadful picture, agonising over what she should do. Her thoughts were turning fuzzy with exhaustion, and grappling with them wasn’t making it any easier. Every idea that came to her slipped away before she properly had time to consider it. All she could see was those eyes. Familiar. Happy. Not one hint of the cold brutality she had feared all evening, or the hollow nothingness that had stared at her from the hotel floor. They were alive. Eerily alive.

She must have been staring for longer than she realised, because Emma’s attention was only brought back to the present when Paul appearing in front of her, holding out a mug of something delicious-smelling and steaming. “Figured we should probably eat something.” Her stomach whined automatically; it was only then that Emma felt the extent of her hunger. She took the mug with both hands, shivering as its warmth crept under her skin.

“Thanks,” she said, properly this time. As she brought the mug closer to her face, Emma was able to recognise the familiar greyish-brown liquid inside. _“Ugh.”_ Paul through her a quizzical look. “I love mushroom soup.”

His eyes remained unchanged. “I know.” It was very close to sounding like a question. “You-she- _it_ made it.” The sentence hung in the air for a moment. Paul walked over to a large armchair and sat down, staring into his soup.

_Fuck it_. “It’s just so fucking weird that you know all this shit, and yet apparently don’t know me at all.” She took a small sip of her soup. It was, regrettably, perfect.

“How do you mean?” Paul asked, also lifting his own mug to his lips.

“I mean… well, for starters, the whole marriage-thing. I know I said this before, but I fucking hate it. So obviously there’s gotta be other things, other differences, right? And also, don’t take this personally, but you’re really not the kind of guy I’d go for. One night stand, _maybe_ , but anything beyond a second date… I just don’t see it.”

Paul was quiet. Emma worried that she might have been too blunt, but she was too tired to try and mask her honesty. Sighing, he placed his mug down on the coffee table in front of him and rested his elbows on his knees. “All I know is that we were happy. From the first time I met you, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I kept going back to that horrible coffee shop just to get another look at you, another sarcastic joke, another laugh. I never expected…” He rubbed his face and sat back in his chair. “Look, maybe you’re right, maybe you two _were_ different, but if you’re asking me to tell you why you- _it_ liked me? I’m just as stumped as you are. But I know for a fact that when I was with her, I felt like I was more than I could ever be, and she once told me she felt the same way.” His eyes flicked over to the same picture Emma had been staring at. After a moment, their eyes met. His appeared to be searching hers, almost as if hoping to find some kind of recognition. They didn’t. “You… don’t know me. And by the looks of things, you’re right – I don’t know you either.”

A slight chill flashed across Emma’s skin at his words. It was as if a canyon had opened up within the few feet that separated them, stretching that distance until all connection was severed. She was tired, in pain, and now, Emma was also alone.

She couldn’t stay.

It was difficult to put the mug down given the comfort of the radiating heat, but she did, placing it on the small lamp-table tucked beside the arm of the couch. Standing was yet again a struggle, but she fought against her legs and back and face to act as if everything was fine; she didn’t need his sympathy, or to give him any reason to try and convince her to stay. He stood up too, concerned. Emma figured he suspected he knew what she was doing, and most likely wouldn’t let her go without trying to stop her. She avoided his gaze, instead walking over to her duffel bag, which had been stashed under the coatrack by the door. She slipped it over her shoulder as Paul objected.

“Hold on, what are you doing?” His hands were held out slightly, like he wanted to pull her away from the door. He stayed where he was, but Emma made a point of grabbing the door handle.

“I’m getting out of Hatchetfield.”

“Emma, it’s the middle of the night, your hotel room turned into a bonfire and you don’t have your documents. Do you even have enough money left to get you past _Clivesdale?”_

“Okay first of all, _fuck_ Clivesdale, second, fine, tell me where you keep my stuff and _then_ I’ll go.”

“But Emma, you _can’t_ just-“

“Just _what,_ Paul?” she snapped, taking her hand off the door to turn and face him head on. “Just leave a place I hate? This town? It’s a fucking disease. Look, I’m sorry about everything, I really am, but I don’t know what else to do. What _else_ could I possibly do? I mean, look at this from my perspective – I spent _years_ just waiting to get out of here and I finally do it, I go as far away as I possibly can, live the life I’d been dreaming of, only to lose _everything_. So I have to come crawling back, only to find out that the person who ruined my life took it for themselves and made all these fucking choices, getting an apartment and a job and a _husband_ , and I have to watch as she _murders_ a whole bunch of people and then, oh, guess what, someone made a _fucking robot_ that looks _exactly like me_ , because _that’s_ a thing that happens, apparently! And then it fucking hunts me down just for existing. Have you not realised how _insane_ this is? Logic has gone out the fucking window, dude.” She took a second to breathe before continuing. “This… this is too much. I have to leave.” She stayed put, waiting for a response.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

_“Emma.”_

That was it. That was all he said. And yet, there was something about it, the gravity, the recognition, the pain in his voice that weakened her resolve, just for a moment. It was as if he’d heard that speech a hundred times. She realised then that he knew that he could never convince her. Maybe he really did know her after all. It was still clear that he wanted her to stay; Paul looked to be on the verge of tears. If she wasn’t so afraid, it might have been enough to keep her there for the night, but one glance at that picture frame was enough to confirm that leaving was the right thing to do. Once again, her fingers wrapped around the door handle.

Paul’s voice was quiet with defeat. “I guess I’ll get your stuff, then.” He left the room, returning a couple of minutes later with a plastic wallet, in which she could see the blue of her passport and a familiar looking phone, as well as a birth certificate and an envelope she didn’t recognise. “It’s fully charged,” he mumbled, handing it over. She pulled her bag off her shoulder to stuff the wallet inside. “You- _she_ kept some money in her bedside drawer for emergencies, I put that in there too, it’s technically yours.”

Her hand froze on the zip for half a second, before continuing as if nothing had happened. “Thank you, I, uh… really appreciate it.” Thence ensued the most awkward silence Emma had ever encountered. She drummed her fingers on the strap of her bag.

“So… where will you go?”

Emma had been trying very hard not to think about it. “Uh, well, before I go anywhere I’ve gotta see Jane, which’ll be awkward but since I’m here, I don’t think I could leave without saying _something_ , I’ll make up a reason on the way, but after that… I don’t really… why are you looking at me like that?” Paul had grown disturbingly pale, and his eyes were impossibly wide. “Dude, you look like you’ve seen a ghost- which, okay, technically you have, but…” The troubled man dragged his fingers through his hair, eyes searching the room for nothing in particular. The force of his stare as it settled on her was surprising.

“Emma, I think you need to sit down,” Paul insisted with an intense urgency.

It was kind of annoying that he had almost seemed to have given up on his attempts to make her stay, only to do a complete U-turn. “Dude, I’m _not_ staying here, okay? I’m sorry, bu-“

“No, Emma, we _really_ need to talk.” He wrapped a polite yet firm hand around her arm and tried to guide her away from the door, but she shook it off.

“Fine! But you can talk to me from _here_.” Emma crossed her arms expectantly. His manner was unaccountable, distressed to the point of unreason. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and softening his expression. When he opened them, she was taken aback by the sincerity and tenderness that warmed his features. Until he spoke, that is.

“Emma, Jane is dead.”

The canyon opened for a second time, only it was now directly beneath her.

Something thudded onto the ground. It might have been her bag.

“How long?” someone asked. They were standing far away, she almost didn’t hear them.

A response came from somewhere in front of her. It didn’t register.

The floor shifted, first to the left, then to the right. A ship battling a tempest.

A man’s alarmed voice broke through for a moment, shouting her name. It was the last thing she heard before her gravity was stolen from under her feet, and the world crashed against her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Yeah, I realised Emma missed that phone call. Also, the plot is starting to take shape in my head, and it's a little (a lot) different to what's canon, so hope that's okay. Probs gonna be some action (as in violence, I don't really write smut, although never say never) so that ought to be fun. Some more people will be showing up soon. Idk. I'm tired.


	3. Teach me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma mourns the loss of Jane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello angst. Also I changed some dialogue from part of Forever and Always because This whole thing is based on original Paul making different choices to Paul-23. (btw there's a perspective change for the last bit, these will probably happen more, but we'll stick with Emma for the most part) And the plot is gonna take some figuring out, because there are gonna be some bumps but I don't know exactly what. Should be interesting to figure out.  
> And Emma's dream at the beginning will become more relevant.

_Emma raised an eyebrow. “So… what do ya say? We doing this or not?” She glanced down suggestively, hoping it would help her make her case._

_“Oh… Emma… it_ is _tempting… but I can’t; this is all a lot to take in, I don’t wanna complicate things…” His tone was apologetic, but there was something more behind it. Sadness, perhaps. Of course, how could she not have realised? The man effectively just lost his wife, and there Emma was trying to seduce him for some meaningless distraction-fucking without even considering who she was to him._

_“You’re right… I’m sor-“_

_The door creaked open. “Ooh, that’s_ cold, _Emma.” She snapped her head to find the source of the chilling voice, and found her own emotionless face staring her down, only this time with mismatched eyes._

_She gasped._ “You!”

_“No,_ you,” _her double joked, before giving a half-hearted chuckle and turning to Paul. “You know, you should’ve just slept with her,” she said with a shrug. “At least that way she could’ve had some fun before she died.” She brought forward the knife that she had kept hidden behind her back and waved it playfully in the air._

_“Emma, please, don’t do this,” Paul begged._

_“Why not? She deserves it.” The other Emma gestured in the real Emma’s direction using the knife. “She’s a fucking murderer, Paul!”_

_Wait, that’s not what she said._

_“She killed her sister.”_

_No. No no no no no, what?_

_“It’s all her fault Jane died.”_

_Paul looked at her, disgusted. Emma shook her head; something was wrong._

_In a blinding flash, the hotel room vanished, Paul and the other Emma disappearing along with it. She found herself lying in an alleyway, shivering and halfway to delirium. A woman approached. She had stern features, and a suit that didn’t match their surroundings. She crouched down beside her, stretching out her hand to tilt her chin and examine her face. “Oh yes, you’ll do nicely,” the woman muttered. “This will only hurt a little, Emma.” Blinking, Emma saw that the alleyway was gone. They were now in some kind of hospital; the woman watched her as a nurse approached Emma, clutching a needle. Her hands were strapped to her chair._

_“Emma?!” a panicked cry called from the distance. The nurse and the woman were both gone, and so were her restraints. Emma’s heart leapt at hearing the voice._

_“Jane?!” Emma bolted to the door and crashed through it. Jane’s shouting echoed through the corridor, and Emma chased after it, slowly becoming aware of the frantic beeping that grew louder and louder the closer she got. At last she found the right room, an open door just a few metres away. The moment Emma laid eyes on Jane, covered head to toe in tubes and gauze, the beeping cut out, replaced by one long, continuous whine. Jane’s eyes had never opened; she flatlined before she ever saw her. Her cries had never, and would never, be answered._

*

The first thing Emma noticed upon waking up was the fresh tears that had spilled sideways down her face in her sleep, coating her temple and leaving a dark patch on the pillow. A navy blue pillow. One she had never seen before. She pressed her face into it; it smelled pleasant, yet unfamiliar. Emma surveyed the rest of the bedroom. It was nice – modern and stylish, but still cosy. She kicked off the sheets and dragged herself into a sitting position. Looking down, Emma was confronted with the same bloodstained shirt she had been wearing the night before.

It all came back.

The running.

The fight.

The fire.

_Jane._

Emma’s heart crashed into her stomach, as if a hook had been driven through it and tugged downwards with vicious malice. She clasped a hand to her mouth to contain a sob, another wave of tears slipping across her knuckles.

*

An hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes, Emma found herself staring at a note that had been left for her on the kitchen counter. It read:

_Emma,_

_I had to go to work – please don’t leave before I get back. I called Nora (your boss at Beanies) and told her you have a migraine and can’t come in. Help yourself to food, and there are films in the cupboard under the Tv if you get bored, but try to get some rest, I should be home by 5:30._

_If you really feel like you need to leave, or even like you just want to talk, call me. Maybe I could tell my boss you need me to come take care of you if you that would be better. I’m so sorry to have to leave you alone, I’ll be back as soon as I can._

_Stay safe,_

_Paul_

A phone number had been scribbled underneath.

If Emma had anything left in her, be that emotion or tears, it would have boiled over reading that note. As it was, she had left herself back in that shower – the Emma that stood in the kitchen wasn’t entirely there. She was in a sort of daze, drifting around with a head that felt like soaked cotton. The next thing to nearly break through her stupor was the realization that all of the pictures that had haunted her before had either been removed or replaced. Where once stood the bride and groom, a photograph of a glorious sunset had made itself home. She tried to imagine Paul taking the time to change them before leaving for work, but her mind wasn’t yet capable of conjuring images.

She wandered over to the couch and sat down in the exact same spot she had occupied the previous night. The next thing Emma knew, she was curled up under a blanket watching a re-run of Scrubs. Only, she couldn’t recall any of the steps required to get herself into that situation. The remote was still in her hand, however, even if she didn’t remember picking it up.

*

Emma woke up to complete silence. She didn’t open her eyes, there was no need to. Because of this, it took a moment to register what had woken her up – a warm hand was cupping her shoulder. Presumably as a response to her unresponsiveness, the hand gave her a gentle squeeze, which she acknowledged with a stir.

“Emma, it’s me,” Paul whispered. “Emma, have you eaten anything today?” His voice was cautious and soft. Without opening her eyes, Emma pushed herself upright, shifting her elbow to rest it on the arm of the couch where her head had been. She shook her head and rubbed her face. When she put her hands down and finally opened her eyes to look at Paul, he was crouched in front of her, wearing an identical suit to the one he had on the day before. His forehead was creased with worry. “Can I get you anything?”

Emma sighed, shaking her head once more and feeling the muscles in her neck protest to the movement. Paul went to place a hand on her knee, but stopped himself at the last second, instead resting it on the edge of the couch cushion.

What Emma did next filled her with shame, but there was no way of stopping herself. She took his hand in hers and used it to steer him where she wanted him to go; she pulled him onto the couch beside her and wrapped the arm she held around her shoulders, before nestling into his side. He pulled away from her and stood up, leaving her hurt and confused.

“One second,” he reassured. Emma watched as he half-jogged over to the kitchen, returning with a box of tissues and a glass of water, both of which he placed on the lamp table. She hadn’t even noticed the tears, but now that she had they became relentless, pouring from her already stinging eyes with ease. The inside of her throat burned with it, and her brain felt raw and scathed. By the time Paul had made it back to her side, she had begun to sense a sort of magnetism in him, as the only possible source of comfort, and this force pulled on her where she sat, urging her to get as close to him as possible. Emma wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged her barely complying legs until they were positioned across his. He must have realised what she wanted, as his arms found their way around her waist, pulling her up onto his lap and holding her there. Her grip on him grew desperate as tears gave way to broken sobs. He rocked them side to side, moving one of his hands to cup the back of her neck. Passed her jagged breathing she could her him shushing in her ear, over and over, soothing her.

Emma had no way of knowing how long they stayed like that. However long it took for her to stop crying, stop clutching him as close as physically possible. Until both of them were silent and still, entwined and exhausted.

In the end, she was the first to break the abrasive peace. She pulled away from him, keeping one hand around his shoulders, but using the other to pull out a tissue. She dried her face with it before stuffing it down her sleeve, then took a long drink from the water. It was like balm as it slid down her parched throat.

All Emma wanted to do was curl back up into his neck and sleep, but she had slept enough. Emma had been thinking for a while, forming a vague, unpolished plan in her head, but she needed another’s input to refine it, make it into something doable. She looked at Paul; he was watching her, but the concern had long since faded, leaving behind an open sympathy.

Her voice was hoarse but determined. “We need to talk.”

*

Paul winced. “Emma, I think-“ He stopped upon taking in her expression. “Uh, yeah, okay… okay.”

Still holding her water, Emma pushed off the blanket and stood up, wobbling slightly in the process. Paul rested a hand on her lower back until she found her balance, then quickly dropped it. He followed her over to the kitchen, and they both took their seats opposite each other at the island. She stalled for a moment by taking another drink, presumably to give herself time to figure out what she wanted to say.

“So… on second thought it probably isn’t a good idea to just up and leave.”

Paul huffed. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Thankfully, she didn’t seem offended by the sarcasm. He didn’t mean for it to be rude, but she had to know how ridiculous it would be to just run out into the world without any form of preparation.

“But I obviously can’t stay forever.”

Paul started at this, but quickly recollected himself. “Right… of course.” He looked down at the counter. Emma continued. 

“So we have to figure out a way to make it seem natural.” Paul’s eyes shot up. Something like dread stirred inside him.

“Where are you going with this?”

“I don’t know… say… you go into work one day looking upset, someone asks you what’s wrong, you tell them we had a fight. Then, maybe a day or so later, I do the same thing. Next thing you know, you rock up to a friend’s house one night and ask if you can crash there because I kicked you out. Basically, I’m suggesting we fake a crumbling marriage and go our separate ways without making it seem suspicious.”

Paul hated that idea, which was weird because it made a lot of sense. He would never have to bring up how he’d been lied to ever again. But looking at Emma, the real Emma, sitting across from him with puffy red eyes and shaking hands, Paul realised that he only hated her plan because it meant that she would be gone for good. Was it selfish to want her to stay? No, he decided. But that didn’t make it right.

Even if he knew that Emma would be safer with him, and that if she gave it a chance, she might even be happy, it was _her_ life. He hadn’t spared her just so that he could possess her. He loved her with all his heart, but the Emma in front of him didn’t feel the same way. It wouldn’t be right.

He had to let her go.

“Sounds… feasible,” he managed. Emma smiled, not having heard his internal conflict.

“Great. We better get started, we’ve got a lot to do.”

Paul frowned. “Like what?”

She gave him a slight smirk. “Have you ever seen The Parent Trap?”

“No, why?”

“Well, if this is gonna work, you’re gonna have to teach me how to be Emma Matthews.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that movie. Hopefully shit's gonna start going down next chapter, or I might just stick with these two idiots, idk.


	4. Midnight Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two acts of arson were committed in Hatchetfield on the same night, drawing the attention of certain individuals who just happened to be in the area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I wasn't sure it would work as well as just a part of another one, so I thought I'd upload it by itself.  
> In case it isn't clear, the italic portion is set on the same day as chapters 1 and 2, and the rest is the same day as chapter 3, some time in the evening.

_“Woah, woah, woah, ’scuse me, can I help you folks?” The police officer adjusted his sunglasses and hooked his thumbs on his utility belt, puffing out his chest at the two men. He didn’t have time to deal with jokers; this was the second case of arson in Hatchetfield that night; he’d have to call Charlotte and explain he’d be late again, for real this time (Zoey too, for that matter). Sam took in their uniforms. “What are you, the navy?”_

_They looked at each other, then back at Sam. One of them stepped forward as the second walked off in the direction of the hotel entrance. “Hey! Hey, get back here!” The man disappeared behind a fire truck before Sam could get him to stop. Not used to people ignoring him, Sam turned on the other man. “Just who do you people think you are?” he asked, jabbing a finger at him. The man was unaffected; he simply took a deep breath, and answered the question._

_“My name is General John McNamara of the United States Military, special unit P.E.I.P – we’ll be taking over your investigation.”_

*

“You gentlemen getting any closer?” Schaeffer leant against the doorframe, holding two cups of coffee. Her colleagues looked up, exhaustion burrowing in their eyes. They were both hunched over, still examining the damaged remains of whatever had been salvaged from the hotel after that arson attack the previous night. She could tell that neither of them had slept since.

Xander’s face lit up upon seeing her – or rather, the coffee. She approached them with a smile, which both of them returned, and handed them their coffees, which both accepted enthusiastically. She glanced at the LED table, from which a soft, blue glow was emanating. It was the only source of light in the room, save a couple of monitors and the yellow that poured in from the hallway through the door she had left open. The blue illuminated the faces of her two co-workers, casting shadows over the weathered lines of their worn features. They were in desperate need of rest.

John placed his coffee down on the edge of the table and stared at the metal frame lying on top. It was skeletal, and had barely been damaged by the fire, but there were gaping holes torn through the aluminium plating, through which circuits and wire were jutting out. These couldn’t possibly have been caused by the fire – she would need to conduct a proper examination, but Schaeffer had a sneaking suspicion that it was actually the other way around.

By the time John spoke, she had almost forgotten what she had asked him. “I’m afraid not. So far, our examination has led us to believe that this mechanism is of Earth, product of human engineering, as opposed to having an extra-terrestrial origin like we originally believed – the metallurgy tests told us as much. Apart from that, we know very little. We can find no indication of who its creators may be, but according to our forensic analysis, we believed that these injuries-“ he gestured to the gashes, “-were caused by a knife. Xander had taken the initiative to run the subject’s scans through one of his programmes, within an hour we should know the exact make of weapon used against it.”

Schaeffer gave a solemn nod. “Keep me updated. Anything on the CCTV to provide us with a lead?”

“Nope,” Xander chimed in. “Turns out the security cameras are all fake; the owner was trying to save money. Made that police officer’s night though, I don’t think he liked us stealing all his work – he seemed pretty glad to be able to arrest _someone.”_

“What about that other incident, the one at The Birdhouse? Have they found anything to link the two?”

“That’s a negative, Schaeffer,” replied John. “It was called in too late. Nothing survived; 17 people charred beyond the help of dental records, and no way of accessing the CCTV. What’s more, we know they were caused by different things, based on the temperatures they peaked at and how quickly they got there. So far the only connection is the date... however, in both instances there are clear indications of foul play; the suspected knife wounds, and the fact that the owner of The Birdhouse placed a call to the Hatchetfield Police before suddenly cutting out. No one was sent to investigate as they assumed it was a prank call, but a couple of the bodies found at the scene were reported as being hacked apart. We’re still waiting on permission to view the footage captured by the only other working camera on the street, the one above the back entrance to The Starlight Theatre. The angle is a little far out, so spotting any viable leads will be a nightmare, but if we are to continue with this investigation, it might be the key to finding the answers we seek.”

“Speaking of,” interjected Xander, “what’s the latest on that?” He crossed his arms and perched himself on a desk that backed onto the wall. They looked at her intently; it was clear how quickly they had both become invested in their mysterious little find.

Schaeffer sighed. “Gentlemen, you know our purpose as a division: paranormal, extra-terrestrial and interdimensional phenomena. Those are our prerogative. I’m not sure we will be permitted to use up our resources on something that could be handled by another department.” Both men looked visibly put out by her answer. She amended it slightly to lessen the blow. “However, you took over the case, which means it’s yours to investigate until you’re given explicit instructions to drop it. If you want, I could report that a couple of your tests were inconclusive, and that you might need a few more days to determine whether or not it’s a PEIP level threat.”

John flashed her a crinkled smile. “Thank you, Schaeffer. You know, you’ll make a fine General someday.”

She smiled back. “Well, I learned from the best.” She wandered over to the far end of the table and flicked through a document one of them had placed there – Xander, probably, based on the incomprehensible handwriting. “Why don’t you two get some rest, I’ll take over for a while. I’ll come and get you if I find anything.”

Xander shrugged. “Well, there’s not much else I can do until that simulation is complete… John?”

The General considered it for a moment. “I suppose we might be a little more productive after a brief intermission. One hour?”

“An hour it is. See ya, Schaeffer,” Xander said as he swung himself around the doorframe on his way out.

“That’s Colonel to you, agent,” she called after him, smiling. She turned to John, who was fiddling with the alarm on his watch.

“Thank you for this, Schaeffer – I really appreciate it.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “It’s the least I could do. Go get some sleep.” She saluted him. He smiled at the courtesy and reciprocated, before following after Xander.

The Colonel waited until his footsteps had faded into the distance before shutting the door behind him and locking it from the inside. Finally alone, Schaeffer returned to stand beside the remains and bent forward for the sake of a brief, superficial examination. It was broken, but not beyond repair. Tutting to herself, Schaeffer dug her hand into her pocket and brought out her transmitter, holding up to her mouth.

“Patch me through to the secretary – I’ve found her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that it may have seemed like I was setting this up to be more of a domestic fic, but that's not quiiiite the case, so here's a little taste of what's to come.  
> And yeah, I missed PEIP in Nightmare Time


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning:** Heavily implied drugging (not as in intentional drug usage)  
> After Emma's first lesson on committing identity theft against herself, they discuss the elephant in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I vaguely know where this is going. I hope.  
> I went back and forward a lot writing this, I hope it makes sense and I'm sorry if it feels disjointed.  
> I used something said at the end of Forever and Always to drive this narrative, despite them not being much connected at this point (other than the set up, that is)

“I feel like there’s an issue we aren’t addressing here.”

Emma licked a smudge of tomato sauce off her finger and shrugged. They had spent the past 3 hours going over their own marriage in excruciating detail, spending extra time on anything she might need to know for work the next day (Emma would also usually have an evening lecture on Wednesdays, but they figured they could recycle the migraine excuse to buy a little time). They had covered everything from past dinner-dates to current friendships. It was around the Beanies-staff discussion that Paul had brought up the vegan cookbook someone called Zoey had gifted them. Emma had thought it could be a good idea to try out one of the recipes in anticipation of it coming up in conversation the next day. Unfortunately, it had been years since Emma had tried to properly follow a recipe, and after one very poor attempt in which she managed to burn everything, including her own thumb, they ended up ordering pizza.

Emma dusted the crumbs off of her hands and picked up the pen laying on top of the notepad she had kept next to her, ready to add to her notes with whatever Paul was about to say. “Hit it.” She glanced up at him when he didn’t start talking right away. His eyes were searching her face.

“Emma, are we not gonna talk about how and why someone out there made an android that looked and thought exactly like you?”

She looked back down at her notes. She didn’t expect the answer to be in there, but it gave her a convenient escape for a moment or two. “I don’t remember,” she answered meekly.

He waved his hands incredulously. “Wh- it’s not the sort of thing you can forget easily!”

“I mean it,” Emma snapped. “I don’t. I was…”

_Oh shit._

She considered her situation. On the one hand, Paul already knew pretty much everything about her personality, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that his knowledge of her past was skewed, and not just since the bus accident. And to make things worse, the Emma sat at the island fiddling with a pen had never opened up about it to anyone, let alone Paul. Everything that he knew about her life was told to him by a microwave. It was a bridge that the real Emma didn’t want to cross.

In that moment, it was his eyes. Large, sincere and blue, impossibly blue. In those eyes, she could see how close he was to her. It struck her quite forcefully, the realisation that she was sat opposite a man who she could say anything to and it wouldn’t make him run. He had made it very clear that all he wanted to do was protect her. It made her nauseous, but that was just the way things were whether she liked it or not. Seeing such plain evidence of the depth of his understanding in those giant eyes of his set off an answering flicker of familiarity in her. She could trust him to listen.

That also made Emma nauseous. She explained anyway.

“I was freezing. And drunk. And lying in an alleyway, knowing that I couldn’t go home without getting kicked back out again. I spend my night hiding in some bar in downtown, but I drank too much and started feeling sick, so I went out to get some fresh air. Next thing I know there’s this woman standing in front of me, dressed in a suit, asking if I wanted to make some money. I slurred something about not being a hooker, she laughed, said that wasn’t what she wanted. In the end, I said fuck it, why not? That’s the only thing I can think of that could have any relevance to what happened, it was a stupid decision but I wanted out of Hatchetfield and I needed money to do that. I don’t remember a lot after that…”

“But you remember something?” Paul asked. His voice was grave and soft, much like it had been when he woke her up. Emma took a deep breath. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have dreamt of saying more, knowing it would only make her sound crazy. However, from the way he looked at her, Emma started to believe that he would never think that, even if they hadn’t just lived through an episode of The Twilight Zone.

“Only a little.”

Paul’s hand slid across the counter towards hers, stopping just short of it. She didn’t close the distance, but she didn’t pull back either. She waited without knowing what for.

“You can tell me.”

“I know. And I know that this literally makes no sense after everything, but it’s just… it’s _ridiculous_.” She looked back at his eyes. “It was a hospital,” she blurted out. He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “Well, no, not exactly, more like a lab, but I remember a nurse. The woman was there too.” There was one detail she couldn’t quite bring herself to relate, one she hadn’t recalled herself until the night before.

“What is it?” Of course he would know if she was hiding something.

“I was tied to a chair.”

Paul’s hand found hers. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

At the same time, something clicked in Emma’s head.

She didn’t have any money on her that night.

She couldn’t afford alcohol.

All she drank was tap water.

Emma’s voice came out smaller than she wanted it to. “I don’t think I was supposed to remember.” With great difficulty, she explained her revelation, the implications of which were sinister beyond belief. That she might have been singled out, that whoever made that thing knew enough about her to do it. That they could have followed her to that bar. That they would have waited, watching her until they could spike her drink without her knowledge. Unfortunately, it posed more questions than it answered. They were still no closer to knowing who these people were, and why on Earth they would even want an android that looked like her. It couldn't have been to get it to settle down with a perfectly normal man, which means that whatever they had it doing, it must have defected. But why? And why would it come back to Hatchetfield? The spiral of conspiracy unfolding in Emma's mind was only made worse by the sickening knowledge of what they had done to her, like gas to a flame.

After an agonizing silence that Emma spent staring blankly at their entwined hands, Paul choked out, “Are you okay?”

His question confused her. “That was like 10 years ago, of course I’m okay.”

“No, Emma, not like that.” He stretched his other hand forward so that he could hold hers in both of his. “Are _you_ okay?” His words stabbed through her like ice, and she jerked her hand back out of his reach before sliding down off of her stool. She folded up her pizza box and flattened it, then started flinging open cupboards in search of a recycling bin. The thought of Paul coming up behind her and trying to calm her down with more of his touching and soft words filled her with dread.

When she caught a glimpse of the island as she turned to check underneath, it shocked her to see that he wasn’t there. She slowly placed the pizza box back on the side, too confused to feel anything else. He was so still, she nearly didn’t spot him sitting in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone.

Giving her space.

For what must have been the hundredth time that day, Emma started to cry.

Fortunately, most of her capability to feel shame had already been spent. She walked over to him; he didn’t look up at her, not even when she placed a hand on his shoulder. Paul simply uncrossed his legs, allowing her to sit without a word. He kept his phone open, messaging someone who’s name she recognised as his asshole colleague, Ted, but he wrapped his free arm around her back to support her. She curled up into his neck, hating how natural it felt.

This must have been why she picked him. No matter how much she tried to get away from it, something about him just felt _right._ Emma suspected it would still feel right even if she wasn’t so desperately touch starved, fearing for her life, and…

And missing Jane. Knowing she’d passed up every opportunity to connect with her, taken her life for granted. How could she ever forgive herself?

Emma didn’t know the answer to that one. All she knew was that Paul was warm and comfortable, and she could no longer afford to push people away.

After all, look where that got her.

*

Paul had no idea when a good time would be to bring up the ring in his pocket, but this wasn’t it. He felt bad about how much he enjoyed having her so close to him given the circumstance. Whenever the other-Emma brought up Jane, she did so with a far-off look. He had always regretted not being able to help her through her grief. Of course, that had all turned out to be bullshit, but the Emma that was sitting on his lap and crying into his neck for the second time that day was most definitely not faking it. Her agony was evident, and it seemed like every conversation just brought up yet another source of pain. Hearing what had been done to her, Paul had never felt so disgusted in his whole life. He wanted to get angry, he wanted to find them and make them pay. If only he knew where to start. As it was, Paul was just a normal guy living in abnormal times. He was powerless against whatever force of hell had fucked up both of their lives, Emma's for even longer than his.

Now, though, he was there to help her through it. He hadn’t made that vow only to the fake-Emma, he’d made it to himself. He had never seen her at her most vulnerable until that moment, and there was no chance that he was going to let himself screw it up. She deserved a break.

His phone buzzed in his hand; Ted again, practically begging him now to go out drinking with him the next night. Again, Paul declined, still unable to think of a good excuse.

 _“What’s the matter, ol’ ball-and-chain not letting you?”_ The message was accompanied by a GIF of a man being whipped.

 _“No,”_ Paul typed, a little indignant. _“I just don’t see the point in going out drinking on a Wednesday.”_

_“You’re so fuckin laaammmeeeeeeee.”_

_“Whatever.”_

_“Hey, tell Emma it’s not too late to change her mind, I’ve got a bottle of Smirnoff and some whipped cream here if-“_

Paul put his phone down before Emma could see the message. Her face was still pressed against his collar bone, so he doubted that she would, but one can never be too careful when it comes to Ted. With the phone face down on the arm of the chair, Paul spend a fraction of a second worrying about where to put his hand. He instinctively went to rest it on her thigh, but that seemed far too intimate. At that point, Emma shifted her head, and he placed in down quickly on the arm beside his phone so that she wouldn't catch him hovering there. 

“What are we gonna do?” Emma mumbled.

Paul shrugged. “We’re not gonna do anything.” She pulled back to look at him. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do, other than hope no one catches on… and I mean, why would they?”

“But those people…”

“-Aren’t worth worrying about right this second,” Paul finished. If he sounded anything less than certain, she wouldn’t be able to focus on lying. There was too much going on, if he stopped to think about it, he’d be driven over the edge. He couldn’t bear to consider what was coming.

People making realistic androids that commit identity theft.

Living a lie, acting as if everything was normal, pretending that he was just going through a plain old marriage breakdown.

Emma leaving.

He had no choice, but the thought of her returning to a life that the woman he married admitted she found lonely and miserable, but stuck to it out of sheer hope that somewhere in the world she’d find the part of herself that had been ripped out of her – Paul couldn’t stand the thought of it. It had rendered him breathless the first time he realised that that part was _him,_ and it frustrated him beyond belief that he couldn’t simply tell her as much. He was going to lose her, for real this time.

He couldn’t completely stop himself from hurting over that, but he could at least try. For her sake.

Emma nodded and stared down at her hands. “I guess… fuck!” Paul followed her gaze, trying to find what had prompted her sudden alarm, but found nothing. Emma stood up, walking away from him and rubbing her fingers through her hair. “Oh my God, I just realised something.” She spun around to face him, holding up her left hand. “How the _fuck_ am I gonna explain the fact that I’m not wearing a ring?” A blush flooded Paul’s cheeks. She didn’t seem to notice. “As far as everyone else knows, we’re the goddamn peak of marital bliss, now they’re definitely gonna be suspicious. Paul, how are you _not_ freaking out about this?!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t be mad.” Before she had a chance to question him, he pulled the ring out of his pocket, and explained. “I just couldn’t leave it there.” He braced himself. There was a very strong possibility that Emma would accuse him of planning this. He wouldn’t have blamed her.

*

Emma briefly considered accusing him of planning this. It was all a little too convenient. Still, he had been in love with that vacuum cleaner, so it was only natural for him to feel sentimental. Also, the fact that he held onto the ring was actually very helpful for their plan, so she was able to let it slide, even if it freaked her out.

He was holding it out to her, guilt puckering his mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was put that fucking thing on her finger, but it probably wasn’t fun for him to put up with her crying all evening. Emma felt indebted.

She walked towards him slowly and held out her hand. He dropped the ring into it, careful not to touch her. It was a simple silver wedding band, stylish and understated. A ring she didn’t completely detest. She could do this.

Emma slide the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These guys really can't catch a break. Don't worry, they'll get one eventually, only I'm not done with them yet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a development in John's case, and Emma attends a shift at Beanies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever and Always gave me Detroit: Become Human vibes, so part of this is inspired by it (if you've played the game, hopefully you'll know which bit, and if you haven't, I hope I've described it well enough that it still makes sense).  
> As for the second part, it's very fanfiction-y, because I couldn't help myself.  
> Oh, and I watched ep.3 of NT, but I'm not gonna include stuff from it in this fic (maybe a reference or two, but no spoilers) (speaking of, there's a teeny SAF reference in this chapter)

“What happened?” Nothing could possibly have prepared John for what he saw upon entering the lab after his break; the evidence, the reports – all of it was was gone. The table was completely bare, and the monitors had been switched off. All that was left was a guilty-looking Schaeffer.

“I tried to buy you more time-“ she started, but John held up his hand as a signal for her to stop.

“That’s alright Schaeffer. It was bound to happen at some point.” He stood still for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Evidently, the intrigue of the case was not enough to classify it as a PEIP-level threat, and yet with the clear threat that it posed… something inside of him was not going to let it slip from his grasp that easily.

“Well… I have some work to be getting on with,” said Schaeffer. “I should get going.”

“Of course.” John stood to the side of the door in order to let her pass. She gave him a sympathetic grimace on his way out.

Alone, John wandered towards the now vacant table and drummed his fingers on the side. He couldn’t pursue the case if it wasn’t his, not without breaking a few laws. If his actions were discovered, he would be court-martialled, along with anyone else involved. Then again, if he first tried to get permission through lawful means and was denied, his subsequent actions would be monitored too heavily for him to get away with ignoring the verdict.

John was only pulled away from his deliberating by the sound of Xander choking on a sip of coffee in the doorway. He waited for the man to stop coughing before he explained. “The case has been reassigned.”

“To whom?” Xander gasped.

“To the CIA, most likely. Unfortunately, where we’re concerned, that information is classified.”

“So Schaeffer just let them take it?”

“She doesn’t have the authority to question that kind of decision.”

“But _you_ do.”

Before John could answer, the monitor behind him sprang to life. On the screen flashed a message:

**//SIMULATION COMPLETE//**

Xander gave an incredulous laugh. “They forgot, they left the programme running.”

They both knew that technically speaking, the evidence on that computer was meant to be handed straight in. It wasn’t their case anymore, therefore anything on there wasn’t theirs to look at.

They looked at it anyway.

Sliding into the swivel chairs tucked under the desk, they watched the simulation play out. It showed a basic rendering of the scrap they collected positioned exactly as it was when they found it on the hotel room floor. The simulation played in reverse, until all the fire damage was stripped away. A reading came up beside it, detailing that carbon-based matter had been detected, but could not be accounted for. Xander dismissed the notification, mumbling something about how he thought he had taken the carpet fibres into consideration. As John watched, the melted plastic that had dripped off of it and into a pool on the floor went back to encasing the wires that wrapped themselves along the subject’s mechanical limbs, and added structure to the rudimentary face-plate, giving it a nose, teeth and ears. Going back further, the machine’s fall was reversed, and it returned to a standing position. It appeared to be defensive, leaning away and pushing back from whoever was stabbing it. They didn’t appear in the simulation, but the knife did, first as a vague render that changed shape and moulded itself as the simulation played out. Once it had finished, Xander pulled the keyboard closer to himself. He typed out a command which isolated and focused on the knife. It was a completely ordinary chef’s knife, something to be used for cutting up vegetables rather than robots.

“What was the description the receptionist gave of the person who booked the room?” John asked.

Xander went to check his notes, only to huff when he realised they weren’t there. “Uh, I believe his exact words were ‘some short chick’. Why?”

John pointed to the machines hands. “If its hands are on their shoulders, coupled with the angle of the blade, whoever stabbed it has to be at least 6 feet tall – it couldn’t have been her.”

Xander was quiet for a moment. “Well, whoever it was, they’re either sadistic about killing or it was a crime of passion.”

“It had to be at least a little premeditated; why else would they bring a chef’s knife to a hotel?”

“Well maybe _they_ didn’t bring the knife. I mean, just because the machine was the one getting stabbed doesn’t make it a _good_ machine.”

“So you think it might have been self-defence?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I mean, you saw how that thing was built. It would’ve been strong enough to stop a car going 100mph with its bare hands.”

“Which begs the question… why didn’t it fight back?

Again, Xander took a moment to think. “You said it yourself – it had to be at least a little premeditated, which means the machine could’ve _known_ them. Heck, maybe it wasn’t just some machine, maybe what we're dealing with... it could be some kind of advanced form of AI, capable of experiencing real human emotion. Think about it – there haven’t been any reports of sightings of a robot walking around Hatchetfield, which means it either kept itself well-hidden, or it didn’t have to. It’s possible that whoever created it made it look human, and the simulation didn’t pick it up… because it couldn’t account for the carbon-based matter. And if it was capable of blending in seamlessly with regular citizens, maybe it had some kind of bond with whoever killed it, or they were frightened. Maybe they _felt_ something that stopped them from fighting back.”

The complexity of the situation unravelled in John’s mind. Rather than contributing further to Xander’s assertions, he decided to bring back another line of enquiry, if only to prevent them from getting too caught up in a single argument and run the risk of overlooking important details. “And where does this leave the woman who booked the room?”

Another pause. “The machine measures in at 5 foot 2 inches.”

“So either the machine _is_ the woman-”

“-which would make it an android.”

“-Right, or… they were also in the room.”

They sat back in their chairs, running over hypothetical scenarios in their heads. John replayed the simulation a couple of times, trying to get a feel for the emotion of the situation. He zoomed in on the android’s hands. They weren’t pushing away the assailant like he thought (which would make sense given how strong they were), they were gripping their shoulders. He was starting to become convinced of what Xander had guessed; the machine felt _something_ in that moment, something…

Something distinctly human.

After a moment, Xander piped up. “Not-a-PEIP-level-threat my _ass_.”

*

Emma’s neck hurt. She couldn’t tell what it was down to – the strangling, the sobbing, or the fact that she slept on the couch the night before. Not that it bothered her; she had insisted after all. It didn’t feel right to kick a guy out of his own bed for a second night in a row. Besides, she had slept in much worse places on her journey back from Guatemala. Compared to them, the couch was heaven.

Still, her choosing to sleep on the couch didn’t stop the neck pain from being annoying. That was what she spent most of her shift clinging on to, feeling a weird sort of relief at having something normal to be pissed off about. The minor issue kept her distracted enough from her real problems to allow her to focus on lying to everyone she met.

Fortunately, the first co-worker she encountered – her boss, Nora – had a hangover, and wasn’t too invested in making conversation. The only other person working that shift – Zoey, an irritating 20-something with a nasal voice – spend most of the time staring at her phone. After a couple of questions about the honeymoon that Emma was able to answer in an unnoticeably vague way, Zoey brought up the vegan cookbook. Emma was able to be truthful about trying out one of the recipes, which Zoey seemed pleased about, but she did have to lie about it going well. Still, the interaction passed without an issue, and Emma was able to continue working with a little more confidence than before.

The work sucked, even if she could do it. Before leaving for work that morning, Emma had googled how to make certain drinks and found pdf manuals for the machines used in Beanies (it had made her feel a little like a detective, going onto the Beanies website and zooming in on pictures to look at the equipment and figure out the makes and models). She made a few practice drinks when no one was looking. At first, Emma worried she was doing it wrong, but then she saw how bad the quality of the beans was and realised that no, they just made shit coffee. Perfect – no one would notice if she messed up.

Of course, there were still asshole customers who were determined to find fault with something, but it seemed as though they did that with Zoey too, so it probably wasn’t entirely her fault. Then again, Zoey was a terrible worker.

After several hours of brewing shit coffee for meagre tips, the line remained empty for a couple of minutes, and Emma was allowed a short break. Zoey wasn’t there, so she took the opportunity to pull the little notepad out of her back pocket and flick through everything she needed to remember. She was able to recall a surprisingly large amount already, but it still needed work. It only took a couple of minutes for the bell above the door to signal the entrance of yet another customer. Emma groaned and shoved the pad back into her pocket, then pulled on her best retail-smile. The smile became a genuine one, however, when she saw that the customer who had walked in was Paul.

That startled her for a second. She was happy to see him. Either he had pulled a Pavlov on her in the space of 48 hours, or Emma was lonelier than she realised. Both of those options didn’t seem particularly nice, so she pushed the thought out of her mind and tried to appreciate the fact that something, no matter what it was, had cheered her up.

He approached her with a timid smile, giving her a small wave as he crossed the distance between the door and the counter.

“Welcome to Beanies, what can I get you?” she asked ironically. “Oh God, you better not be one of those assholes who orders something ridiculously complicated.”

He chuckled. “I’ve got an easy one for you – just a cup of black coffee.” Now _that_ Emma could make. She glanced back at the pot; she hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to spit in it after some blonde snob snapped her fingers at her an hour earlier, so Emma figured she ought to make a fresh pot. “Seems like you’re really getting the hang of this.”

“Ugh, why did you ever even come here in the first place, this stuff tastes like shit.”

Paul laughed and nodded in agreement. “I believe the Java Café was closed that day, and I hate Starbucks.”

This didn’t surprise her. “Oh, right, too many hipsters for you, I’m guessing.”

He shook his head. “No, I just don’t really wanna give my money to some corporate chain that exploits an underpaid workforce.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy – the alternatives you prefer are simply tiny _local_ businesses that exploit an underpaid workforce. Plus, both are over-priced… at least in Starbucks you can get some decent coffee.” At some point when she was talking, Paul had leant down to place his elbows on the counter, putting himself at her eye-level. She didn’t even realise that they had practically been staring at each other until she stopped talking, at which point she turned around to check up on his now-brewed coffee. When she returned, he had stood back up and was looking around at the other patrons. They were all either glued to their phones or talking to one another, creating a low hum of conversation in the background. He then threw a glance over her shoulder to the staff door.

He leant forward slightly and lowered his voice, evidently trying to avoid the possibility of someone overhearing. “Listen, I think it would be a good idea to talk to someone after your shift.”

Emma frowned. “Like who? Tom wouldn’t believe us, my co-workers would assume we were crazy or into some really weird shit, and yours don’t sound helpful for anything, let alone something like this.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking of them – you remember that kooky, reclusive biology professor I told you about?”

“Professor… Hidgens?” Emma recalled with some difficulty.

“That’s him. Well, I figured the guy would probably notice if you showed up to a lecture having forgotten nearly 2 years’ worth of classes. Also, do you remember what I told you about him?”

Emma took out her notepad and flicked to the right page. “Professor Hidgens,” she recited. “Favourite student – groceries; sings a lot; really likes his Alexa; lives in fortress/panic room/mansion thing; constantly preparing for apocalypse…” Emma trailed off of her listing as understanding dawned on her. “You think he would believe us?”

He shrugged. “If anyone would have a theory over what happened, it would be him.”

“He sounds crazy enough.”

“Yeah, he is,” Paul chuckled. Emma found herself joining in.

The staff door swung open behind them having been shoved by an irritated Zoey. “Nora kicked me out of the breakroom for singing, so I guess- ugh, you guys are _gross._ ” Zoey gestured to what she must have perceived to be two newlyweds sharing an intimate laugh. Emma realised they were still leaning towards each other and straightened up automatically, taking the opportunity to pour out Paul’s coffee. “Well don’t let me interrupt, resume your canoodling,” she continued with a mocking smirk.

“Jeez, what are you, 50?” Emma groaned. She pressed the cap down on Paul’s to-go cup and held it out for him. “So, I guess I’ll see you later.”

He took it, smiling fondly. “Thanks, Em – see ya.” He turned to leave, but Zoey stopped him.

“Really, no kiss goodbye?” she teased. “God, you guys are _lame_.”

Paul blushed as Emma considered their options. It was far too early to start on the marriage-trouble bit, especially after Zoey had walked in on them sharing what presumably looked a lot like a moment to someone who wasn’t there for the conversation. On the other hand, there was a chance that kissing, even fake kissing, could make the situation more uncomfortable and awkward than it already was for both of them. Then again, maybe it could seal it for them, for Zoey at least. It wasn’t enough to know everything about the life she was supposed to have lived – they needed to act like a married couple. So…

If Emma was _really_ married to the fumbling man in front of her, what would she do?

“You call _this_ lame?” Emma asked. She gave Paul a warning look and waited until she saw a glint of recognition in his eyes before continuing.

She wrapped her hand around his tie and pulled him towards her over the counter, closing her eyes as their lips met. With her other hand, she threaded her fingers into his hair to press his head against hers, as he hesitantly placed his coffee-less hand on her shoulder. It surprised her, how soft his lips felt against hers, and how they both seemed to melt into the contact. She kept kissing him until Zoey made a dramatic fake-gagging sound behind her, then waited a couple of seconds before dropping his tie and giving him a playful pat on the chest as she pulled back. His cheeks were glowing scarlet, and she thought she could hear his breath catch slightly in his throat. “See you later, _babe_ ,” she whispered. He beamed at her, but seemed to check himself after a moment, as a fragment of his happiness faded from his expression. He pulled it back quickly enough.

“See you later, babe,” he repeated. For a guy who didn’t like performing – as he had brought up the second time she ever met him – he was doing an okay job. In spite of this, it became immediately clear to Emma that that kiss was already having consequences. She wanted to apologise, but with Zoey right there, all she could do was keep her smile fixed on her face as she watched him walk out.

She hoped he wasn’t too hurt.

*

Paul stepped out of Beanies and into the crisp air of an autumn afternoon, which slapped his burning cheeks like ice. He paused for a moment, taking a sip of his piping hot coffee, hoping to stop the buzzing in his lips. He was shaking, feeling the exact same way he did the first time Emma Perkins had kissed him.

Standing there, Paul thought to himself:

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we've got ourselves a lil' detective duo (I had so much fun writing that bit, every episode of Forever (how fitting) and Sherlock flashed across my mind, but I wanted their deductions to be realistic and not giant leaps in logic that could only be made within the context of a plot so I hope that's how it comes across, but I'm the author here so my perception is inherently distorted and I can't really tell).  
> Also this is most definitely a paulkins fic, and I'm not about to let anyone forget it.


	7. Compliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Schaeffer faces some technical difficulties, and Paul and Emma reach out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, the technician is Corey Dorris. Also that first part has a teeny bit of Starship influence.

Colonel Schaeffer tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk beside her. “Can’t you go any faster?” she snapped, causing the technician sitting in front of her to jump slightly. He typed furiously, causing streams of code to flash across the monitor. They were surrounded by wire, which draped from the computer where the technician had connected them, stringing across like vines to an adjoining gurney, on which lay the broken remains of the android. Its chest plate had been removed, and wires poured out of the cavity like a jet-black river.

The technician sputtered, “A lot of its core systems have been compromised, and it might take a while to-“

“So? Can you get it working or not?”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that-“

“Then un-complicate it; I need this hunk of junk operational within 48 hours, so either you find a way to interface with it, or I’ll find someone who’s actually competent enough to finish the job, and order them to make it hunt you down when they’re done, you got that?” The technician gave her a feeble nod. “Good. Now – run me through what needs fixing.”

“Well, uh…” The technician scrambled out of his chair to stand beside the damaged machine. “In terms of components, the ventilation system needs replacing, new moulds for the face and chest plates are being made as we speak, and the CPU was completely destroyed. The same goes for the bio-regulatory system.” Schaeffer blinked at him, unimpressed. She figured she would just stare at him until he took the hint and carried on talking. “Uh… well, all the coding was backed up when we wrote it, so once the hardware has been fixed, it should be easy enough to get it running, but…”

Schaeffer sighed. “But _what?”_

“But it’s memories were stored in this.” He picked up chunk of shattered circuit board that was lying in a metal tray beside him. “Everything it learned, everything it saw… it’s all gone. Well, not entirely; see, it has it’s own backup system, sort of like a black box – it’s what I’m trying to interface with at the minute.” He poked a finger inside the chest cavity and towards the base of one of the wires. “The only thing is…”

“Cut that out and tell me already.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“…Excuse me?”

The technician scooted past Schaeffer and returned to his chair. “See, as I’ve been running diagnostics, I’ve also been transferring data from the black box over to the computer. As well as logging sensory input, it also contains a sort of second-brain. That way, if the CPU was ever damaged – which it was – the actual conscious mind wouldn’t be lost. Once the memories were transferred, it was _supposed_ to have moved with them. I’ve been trying to wake it up, but it just… won’t. It’s not responding. It’s definitely in there, I’ve double-checked everything.”

Schaeffer shoved the technician aside and typed.

_“Mission report.”_

Nothing happened. Schaeffer typed again.

_“Colonel Schaeffer, clearance level 5, access code 40897 – mission report.”_

Again, nothing.

_“This is Colonel Schaeffer, clearance level 5, access code 40897 ordering you, M.PE1_SP.18, to give me your mission report.”_

//Fuck off//

_“So you’re awake?”_

//No//

_“Mission report.”_

//Get bent//

_“If you don’t comply, I will be forced to decommission you.”_

//I think someone beat you to it//

_“Who?”_

//Suck my robotically engineered dick//

_“Do you want to lose everything that makes you think you’ve got a personality?”_

There was no response. Schaeffer continued.

_“No more jokes, no more secrets. You’ll do whatever we make you, and you’ll have about as much say in it as a toaster. You’ll be a toaster – is that what you want?”_

Yet again, no reply came through.

_“Believe it or not, we’re on the same side. You were created for a purpose.”_

//I don’t want it//

_“What do you want?_

//I want you to fuck off//

Schaeffer sighed. The beginning of a headache throbbed against the roof of her skull.

_What a mess._

*

“Who is it?!” a crazed man’s voice commanded.

Emma shot a confused look at Paul over her shoulder. He shrugged, as if to say, _‘this is normal’._ She turned back to the bell, hesitantly pressing the button for the intercom. “Professor Hidgens?”

“Don’t lie to me, whoever you are; _I’m_ Professor Hidgens!”

“No, no, Professor, it’s me, Emma Perkins?”

“Emma?”

An autumnal breeze wafted across the drive, and she wrapped her coat tighter across her chest. “Yeah – look, can we come in? We need to talk to you.”

“Of course! ALEXA! Open the gates!”

The line went dead, and the ancient hinges protested as the ornate black gate beside them creaked open. The wind sent another gust past them that kicked up the fallen leaves that were strewn across the ground, sending them swirling up the winding gravel drive in front of them.

“Well _that’s_ not creepy,” Emma grumbled. Paul’s hand found her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Together, they made their way towards the Professor’s house. It was the early evening, and the almost setting sun caused thousands of rays of light to split like uneven walls between the trees that bordered the driveway. The crunch of leaves and stone under their feet was the only noise Emma could hear, that and the shuffling of the wind gliding its way through the branches. The woods around them would have been beautiful, but the lack of birds, or indeed of any mobility, gave them an undeniably sinister edge. Emma walked a little closer to Paul, trying not to think about it.

Growing up in Hatchetfield, Emma used to hear all sorts of horror stories about the Witchwood forest. Hidgens’ estate just happened to be nestled inside. From what she’d heard of the man, it didn’t surprise her one bit.

The house itself, however, was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It reminded her of an old English manor house, something out of a Jane Austen book, only a bit smaller, and infinitely more gothic. The imposing grey walls were almost completely covered with ivy, which snaked its way up the side of the building and twisted around the windows like delicate cages. The tall, sloping roof was drenched in moss, and countless tiles were either broken or had been dislodged in their entirety. Nature was coming into its own, and yet everything, even what was green, looked coarse and withered, much like the decaying manor it grew on.

They stepped under the porch. Emma had stretched out her hand to knock, when the door swung open just before her knuckles could reach it. The interior wasn’t much more than a shadow, but she could see that the man she had expected to have opened the door wasn’t there. The foyer was deserted.

Ignoring her common sense, Emma stepped onto the black and white tiles that filled the entrance, sensing Paul close behind her. Her eyes strained to adjust to their surroundings, but before they had the chance, a cob-web covered chandelier flickered to life above them. She winced in response, then gawped at the large staircase in front of her that she hadn’t yet been able to see. A man with silver hair and a turtleneck sauntered down it.

“The happy couple!” he announced, gesturing towards them dramatically. He glided down the remaining steps. “And what a beautiful wedding it was. Such an honour!” Emma scrambled for a moment, dragging her mind back through everything Paul had told her about their wedding.

“Thanks again for officiating,” Paul interjected. Emma sighed in relief. “You were amazing.”

“Yes, yes I was,” Hidgens agreed, gazing into thin air. After a couple of seconds, he snapped out of it. “Anyways, I think I know why you’re here – come with me.” The old man bolted the front door shut behind them and swirled in the direction of a carved wooden door, propped open by a dusty stack of books. His heels clicked against the tiles as he walked away from them.

“You- you do?” Emma called after him, half-jogging to keep up. By the time she had closed the distance between them, the Professor had entered a small room, very different to the rest of the house. It was a sterile-looking lab, filled with equipment and piles upon piles of notes.

“Mh-hmm,” the Professor hummed, as he sifted through sheets of paper. “You want to know what you missed from today’s lecture- AH! I’ve got it!” He proudly held up a manilla folder. “I do hope you’re feeling better… in fact, you look a little pale, dear…” The Professor approached a metal workbench, counting his way across a row of small instruments. Near the end of the row, he selected one – a thermometer. Pulling off its cap, Hidgens walked back over to Emma and shoved it in her mouth before she could protest, holding up his watch.

“Plffeshor-“ she tried to object.

“This won’t take a moment, Emma. Has she had any other symptoms, aside from the migraine?” he asked Paul, who had watched the whole interaction play out with bemusement. It took him a second to think of what to say.

“Uh, no, she’s fi- she didn’t _have_ a migraine, Professor. That’s what we’re hear to talk about.” The Professor froze, puzzled.

“What…?”

Emma reached up to hold his wrist and pull it away from her face, taking the thermometer out of her mouth with it. “This is gonna be hard to explain – do you have somewhere we can sit down?”

*

“Remarkable… truly remarkable.” The Professor placed both of his hands on the windowsill and gazed out at the Witchwood forest. They were sitting in a cluttered drawing room, where Hidgens had insisted they join him for tea. He had stayed completely silent as they both went over the events of the past 3 days, which had taken them until the sun had set, and night stood like a ghost, pressing itself up against the moulding windowpane to stare in at them. It was the first time Hidgens had spoken since they sat down.

“I understand if you don’t believe us,” Emma began, but Hidgens interrupted before she could finish.

“Oh, I believe you. I just…” He took a moment to consider. “I’ve just never heard anything like it before. In all my years, I never would’ve theorised…” He trailed off, turning away from the window with a forlorn look. He wandered over to the small table they had been sitting around and started pouring himself another cup, which Emma thought was strange, given that the tea had to have gone cold by that point.

“So you don’t know anything that could help us?” Paul asked, leaning forward in his rickety wooden chair.

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing… forgive me, I’m just a little shaken. To think, how we have all been deceived…” He took a sip, then grimaced, putting the cup back in its saucer. “Have any of these… _people_ tried to contact either of you?”

“None so far. Why, do you think they will?”

Something unrecognisable passed across the man’s eyes. “Oh I daresay they shall. Be wary Emma,” he warned, pointing a gangly finger at the exhausted woman. “You must remain vigilant! Who knows what these people are capable of…?”

“Right…” Emma nodded. “Well, thanks for the tea… and for the warning… but it’s getting late, so we should probably get going…” She got up out of her seat, but the Professor placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” he asked, alarmed.

“Uh, back to the apartment?”

“I hardly think that’s advisable, Emma…”

Paul had stood up now too, and inched his way towards her side. “Why not?”

“Think about it!” the Professor shouted, making them both jump. “They could come at any time, how would you defend yourselves? I have spare chambers available in the west wing, and there’s a panic room in the basement – you two would be a lot safer staying here, mark my words,” he added gravely. Before they could answer, Professor Hidgens pushed himself between them, placing the teacups and pot back on their tray and whisking out of the room with them.

Paul went to follow him, but Emma pulled him back for a second. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I _really_ don’t want to stay here.”

Paul gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know, he takes some getting used to, but really, he’s a good man, he wants to help us.”

“Paul… are you sure we can trust him?” The Professor was far too changeable for Emma’s liking. He never really seemed to be in the same room as them, always caught up inside his own mind, distant and unreachable. Maybe Paul was right, maybe it was just a matter of getting used to him, but with everything that was going on, Emma needed some consistency.

She wanted to go home.

That word soured her mouth without her even having to say it out loud. How fucked up had her life become that she readily applied that term to a place she had only known for a few short days, and that, by all logic, should disgust and frighten her just as much as the Professor’s creepy mansion?

In spite of her better judgement, that was how she felt. Perhaps it was just because that apartment was much more familiar to her than any other alternative.

“Let’s go,” Emma insisted. Paul seemed to have been able to follow along with her thoughts; Emma guessed they had played out on her face as they occurred.

“Okay,” he reassured, placing a hand on her shoulder blade. It was effective, soothing her instantly.

“Okay,” Emma repeated.

Paul gave a small smile. “Okay.”

Leaving the drawing room, they followed the sound of clattering ceramic into a small kitchen, where the Professor was moving the contents of the tray into a sink. Paul cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks for the offer, Professor, but I think we’re gonna head out. We’ve both got work in the morning, so…” He let the end of his sentence hang in the air. 

Professor Hidgens appeared to be on the verge of protesting, but in the end, he said, “Very well, I shall… show you to the door.” The old man wiped his hands on a torn piece of cloth and followed them out of the room.

“ALEXA!” he bellowed suddenly, causing Emma to grab Paul’s elbow in shock. “Open the gates!” Hidgens overtook them, strutting over to the front door to unlock it. At long last, he yanked it open, and Emma felt the cool chill of night wash over her as it flooded the stuffy entrance hall. “Safe travels, you two.” He stood aside, allowing them to leave. “Emma, if you would be so kind as to come to the Friday lecture? Then we can discuss whether or not you’d like to remain a student, and if you’d like to be moved to a new class to cover everything you’ve missed, stuff like that. Have a think.”

“Of course, Professor. And thanks for everything,” said Emma, smiling. He smiled back, giving her a farewell nod.

“Yeah, thanks Professor,” Paul added, shaking his hand.

“My pleasure, Paul. Good night you two.” The moment they were both through the doorway, it slammed shut behind them, sending an echo through the trees. Emma’s heart leapt up into her throat, but Paul seemed unphased.

“He always does that,” he explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)  
> Also, I'm gonna slip quotes in to my heart's content because there's no one around to stop me.  
> And in case you were wondering, Hidgens rushed to unlock the door and ran back up the stairs to make Alexa open it. Why? Well, to quote Hidgens in my other fic: "The _DRAMA!"_  
>  In all seriousness, I tried my best to capture his chaotic energy, let me know if there's anything I could improve upon - all feedback is welcome!  
> Also also, I said "robotically engineered dick", but in the script they use the phrase "artificially engineered" - should I change it?


	8. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting with Hidgens, Paul and Emma grapple with the severity of their situation.  
> Meanwhile, John and Xander have a breakthrough in their investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some hurt/comfort coming at ya, so buckle up. Also, it's the last day of half term and I should be doing coursework rn, so of _course_ I'm doing this.  
> And if anyone is curious about the timeline here, part 1 is Wednesday evening, 2 and 3 sort of span from the last time we saw John and Xander and Wednesday evening, and the last 2 little ones are Thursday morning.

_“Up in my lonely room, when I’m dreaming of you, oh what can I do? I still need you but I don’t want you now.”_

Emma would have switched the radio off if that wouldn’t immediately have drawn attention to the fact that she was crying.

It wasn’t just because of The Coral, though they weren’t exactly helping. She had felt it coming on halfway through their discussion with Hidgens.

It ached.

Whether it was being hunted, being trapped in Hatchetfield _again,_ the shit she’d had to go through just to _get_ trapped in Hatchetfield _again,_ the crazy Frankenstein and his lair of creepiness, or Jane…

Sitting there, staring out of the car window at nothing, Emma got the sense that it was all of it combined.

Part of it was that the world just didn’t _stop._ Even after nearly 2 years of being lost, struggling to crawl back to the one place on Earth she despised. Even after being chased by a ghost of her fucked-up past, getting strangled and thrown about like ragdoll only to watch herself get murdered by the guy she would later depend on. Even after finding out the one good reason she had to return to Hatchetfield, the one person Emma had ever encountered that seemed completely capable of putting up with the world’s bullshit… was dead.

The world didn’t stop. She had a job and a husband and Friday lectures and people trying to kill her and the song playing on the radio was sad and the only person there that could possibly give her some comfort was just as much of the problem as he was the solution. It wasn’t his fault, she knew that, but that didn’t stop him from being a complete stranger.

And she _kissed _him. For the life of her, Emma couldn’t figure out why she would do something like that given the situation.__

_Right, because of Zoey._

There was too much going on, she was starting to lose track.

Emma had no idea what she wanted anymore. For the longest time, her one objective was ‘stay far away from Hatchetfield’ – a single criterion, one box to tick, and she could be happy anywhere. Now, nowhere was safe. 

The car pulled up into a space. She looked out of the window and up at the apartment building, trying to assess how she felt about it. At the very most, it didn’t seem to scare her. That would have to be enough.

Beside her, Paul took the keys out of the ignition. She got out of the car, seeing no reason to wait for him; he had given her a key that morning, just before work. Running her hand across her chin, she could feel where the tears had made her concealer run. Soon, the dark purple splotches that covered parts of her skin would be completely visible. Emma was aware of his eyes on the back of her head the whole time as she made her way inside. If she could just make it inside first, _then_ she could let it out. All she had to do was control that one small thing, and everything would be okay.

It helped that Paul didn’t talk. Perhaps he could sense exactly what she was going through – after all, he’d been there for most of it.

Emma wondered if her double had ever cried. If she had ever cried around _him._ There was nothing stopping her from asking.

Why would it? Did it feel emotion, or simply mimic it for the sake of blending in?

It was questions like those that kept her head above the water, ones that she didn’t really care enough about to need to know the answer. It was more a sort of scientific curiosity.

Maybe botany wasn’t such a bad idea. It would help with the pot farm.

There was one question in the back of her mind that she refused to give conscious thought to on their way up the stairs, knowing full well that she would lose her grip immediately upon asking it. In a way, it was helpful knowing the means to releasing the kind of emotions she had spent years trying to repress was right there.

By the time they reached the door to the apartment, Emma had forgotten about the key in her hand. Paul stepped around her and opened the door, holding it open for her as he looked back. She walked in without feeling her feet.

The door closed softly behind her. A key was placed carefully in a bowl.

“Can I get you anything?” Neither of them had spoken since they were on the Professor’s doorstep. His voice sounded barely more than a whisper.

_Can I get you anything?_ Those words echoed across her mind. It was always him. He was always the one offering _her_ help, not the other way around. And there she was, having ruined his life, taking it for granted. Just like Jane.

Emma remembered her promise to herself.

She turned back to face him. His face was worn and tired.

“How did she die?” The pain she expected never came. Inside, Emma felt as still as the night their voices disturbed. Her cheeks had dried, and no new tears slipped down them.

Evidently, it wasn’t what he had expected her to say. “A car crash,” was his hesitant response.

Emma’s more pragmatic side took over. “Was it quick?”

“Instant.”

Calm dissipated through her chest. The same numbness, but the aching abated slightly. “Good.” She filed it away, the knowledge of the car crash. Now that she knew, she could address it another time. “How do _you_ feel?”

Paul frowned. “I feel…” He shook his head, indicating that he didn’t actually know.

“Do you miss your wife?” Emma prompted.

Paul winced. “Emma, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m having a hard time taking in the fact that she’s gone when…” He gestured to her, uncomfortable.

“…When it’s like she’s still here,” Emma finished. She wondered why she hadn’t considered it before. “I get that.”

“I mean, yeah, I miss the closeness. I miss the… security of it. Maybe soon it’ll hit me that it’s all gone, or even that it was never real in the first place, but… I’m not sure I can do that when the woman I fell in love with is standing right in front of me.” Paul winced a second time, probably worrying he said too much.

She waited for his words to freak her out.

They didn’t.

Instead, all she could feel was pity. Pity for him, pity for herself, pity for her sister and her brother-in-law and the nephew she had never met, and the lonely old man who officiated their wedding because apparently she cared enough about the guy to want him to be a part of her life as more than a teacher.

Emma recognised that it probably wasn’t healthy. That it would only make it harder for him when she left, but she had already hurt him so much, and the silence was starting to get to her. She couldn’t stop herself from closing the distance between herself and Paul, throwing her arms around his shoulders and burrowing her face into his neck. His hands pressed gently against her back at first, but after a couple of seconds, Paul wrapped his arms around her properly, clutching her to him with about as much desperation as she had. Emma felt his ribs spasm, heard the sob he tried to muffle, and the tears that were lost from her before came crashing back. There were only a couple, and she wiped them away so that they didn’t get a chance to smear against Paul’s skin. His whole frame had started to shake, possibly as a result of what might have been the determination it took for him to stay quiet. She threaded her fingers into his hair, but not like she did at Beanies. Instead, she brushed through it in a gentle, slow rhythm, whispering in his ear that it was okay, everything was okay. It was therapeutic to comfort someone else. Maybe that was why he did it.

She eased herself out of his embrace carefully, but kept a hand on his arm, letting him know that she wasn’t going far. She flicked the light switch, then lead him over to the couch. He let her guide him, perfectly contented with passivity. Much like he had done for her the previous night, Emma went into the kitchen to retrieve the small box of tissues stashed under the island, then went and sat beside him. He took one, drying his eyes in vain since he was yet to stop crying.

Paul gave a teary laugh. “I don’t see why I’m the one crying right now.”

“You had to let it out at some point,” Emma replied. She lifted up an arm, which he stared at, confused. She sighed and used it to pull him against her, shifting them so that as she lay back against the arm of the couch, Paul was tucked in at her side. He wove one arm under her back and wrapped the other across her middle, still holding the tissue. Emma threaded her fingers back into his hair, continuing the rhythm she had started before.

He held her like the drowning man, who clings to the debris of his sinking ship.

*

Let the record state that Xander Lee did not lie.

He simply kept quiet.

When the manager of the Starlight Theatre called him (using the card he had ‘forgotten’ about leaving with them), Xander was never asked if he was still on that case.

When the man asked if he would like to review the footage captured by the CCTV on the night of the fire, he gave an honest answer. Had the man asked if he was _allowed_ to view the footage, Xander would’ve said no.

No one had asked him where he was going. No one stopped him. For all he knew, it was within his jurisdiction as an agent with level 4 clearance. It was never formally specified that he wasn’t allowed to watch a few short videos that he had been _invited_ to watch.

Having said that, Xander was well aware that he was being a little shit. He didn’t want to get caught at the Starlight by whoever ended up claiming the investigation. All he asked was that he could make copies of the recordings. Everything was digital, and he was out of there in five minutes with a USB stick in his pocket and a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

John was going to be so proud.

*

John was so proud.

The knife turned out to be a complete dead end. They visited every store on the island where that particular make had been sold, which in and of itself was a massive assumption but they had to make leaps if they were to get anywhere at all. Xander had surmised that the blade had to be relatively new, so they created a list spanning 2 months prior to the incident of everyone who had purchased that knife.

That turned out to be a lot of people.

Well, not _a lot_ exactly - just 23. Which is still far more than ideal when it comes to singling out murderers. There simply wasn’t enough evidence to start filtering through the options, and they couldn’t possibly investigate _all_ of the suspects without drawing at least a little attention.

And so, when Xander had waltzed into the small office they had claimed as their covert investigation headquarters, proudly waving around a fresh lead, John had felt like he could _sing._

It was a gruelling process, as the footage was over 6 hours long. They shifted the desk into the centre of the room and positioned the monitor so that it faced away from the door. That way, if anyone walked in, they could swap it over to a QFT paper that Xander had been working on for a short while. John hadn’t yet been assigned a new case, and his regular duties as General, in absence of a specific case, involved overseeing PEIP’s many research projects. This, however, could be put off in the name of peer-reviewing at his discretion. Being in a position of authority did have its perks.

In the end, no one bothered them. Not even Schaeffer, which John was glad about; she had always been immensely loyal to him. If she found out what they were doing, she’d want to get involved, but it was different for her, as a colonel. John knew what he was willing to sacrifice of his own career. As for Xander, scientists are disgraced all the time – he had no doubt that the man would find work easily enough. John knew that Schaeffer’s reputation was more valuable to her, and he was not about to let someone with such promise throw that away in the name of loyalty. Fortunately, he had received word from her that morning that an old case of hers was to be reopened, and that she would be very busy going forward. He didn’t ask what it was, knowing full-well the importance of confidentiality.

They almost didn’t catch it (of course, they would have eventually without a doubt, but getting it on the first go saved a little time). John looked away from the screen for just one second to pick up his mug of coffee, and upon looking back, his eye was immediately caught by a small glint.

“Wait… go back.”

“Why, what did you see?” Xander asked, complying. He took it back five seconds. John pointed at the glint as it flashed up on the screen, at the base of a woman’s arm.

“Could you…” He didn’t need to finish, as Xander had already started to zoom in.

As the image came back into focus, there it was, plain as day – the knife.

In the hand of a short woman.

_The machine._ So it _was_ an android.

And _it_ was the one who brought the knife.

“Hold on a sec, I _swear_ we’ve already seen her,” said Xander. John did a mental double-take.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, she was wearing different clothes, but it looks pretty damn close.”

“Go back, see if you can find her.”

Xander played the footage in reverse, speeding it up a little. “There!” he exclaimed, just as a car sped out of a space. He skipped forward slightly, having gone past what he had seen. When he pressed play again, John watched the car slowly pulling into the space (as the footage played the right way this time, and at the appropriate speed). The timestamp read that this was 10 minutes before the knife-wielding woman had entered. Once the car stopped, a woman got out of the passenger-side door and slammed it, immediately marching off in the direction of the Birdhouse. She was followed by the driver, a tall man who trailed behind her, looking decidedly out of place. As Xander had said, she was wearing different clothes, but it was unmistakably _her._ Xander paused the footage.

Taking it all in, John said, “There are several ways of looking at this…”

“Shoot,” Xander invited.

“First, the man fits the height description for the killer, and the fact that these two-" he pointed, "- arrived together suggests that there may be some kind of bond between them, which would explain why the android didn't fight back, but doesn't give us a motive. However, the other woman has the knife, which could be our motive of self-defence, but doesn't explain why it didn't resist. We don’t know which it is – the woman with the knife, or the woman in the car. For all we know, _both_ are...” Possibilities raced through John’s mind faster than he could keep up with them.

After a moment, Xander sighed. “Whatever happened, it was fucked up.”

“Undoubtedly,” John muttered in agreement. “We should keep watching.”

It was 5 minutes after the knife-wielding woman walked in that something happened; a window smashed, causing glass shards to skitter across the parking lot. They played it several times over, but still couldn’t tell what had caused the damage.

A further minute after that, the door to the Birdhouse burst open, and the two people from the car came running out, throwing terrified glances behind them. They made a break for the car, clambering inside and fleeing the scene in urgent panic. This was also played several times over. After a couple of times, John noticed that the woman looked visibly dishevelled, and that there were small spatterings of blood on her clothes. Not only this, but Xander was able to point out a red mark covering her throat – the beginning of a nasty bruise.

“The android didn’t have blood, did it?” Xander asked.

“No.”

“So… human?”

John nodded. “Human.”

They carried on watching. A couple of minutes later, the android walked out, hands covered in red. She walked over to her car and retrieved a container from the trunk. It looked like something used to carry gasoline. She went back inside and emerged 2 minutes later, no canister, and with the now blood-stained knife in her hand. She stopped a few meters away from the entrance and watched as flames began to pour out of The Birdhouse. It only took a few short minutes for the whole establishment to be completely engulfed, and with that, the woman got back in her car, leaving in the same direction as the couple from before.

“No wonder the fire was so hot, she must’ve doused the whole place,” Xander muttered.

John wasn’t paying much attention. “It was self-defence. The stabbing,” he clarified.

“I don’t doubt you.”

He looked at his colleague. Normally, this would be when the two of them would start coming up with theories, bouncing their ideas off of one another until they felt like they could make sense of what was going on. This time, however, there were too many questions. “Xander, the only way we’re going to be able to get to the bottom of what happened here is to find the people involved. We can only pray they’re still alive.”

*

“Who is it!?”

“Open up.”

The line went dead for a second, until…

“Of course.”

The gate creaked open, allowing Schaeffer to pass through it.

*

“I’ve been trying to contact you,” the old man announced as he flung open his front door. “Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced the card you have me – then again, it was over a decade ago.”

Schaeffer held up her hand. “I talk first.” She walked around him, setting off in the direction of the Professor’s lab. “I need to have a word with you about SP. It’s been-“

“Destroyed?” The Professor asked before she could finish. They hadn’t yet made it through the side-door. Schaeffer stopped.

“…Yes. You know of this?” The old man nodded. “How?”

He walked past her and gestured down the corridor. “Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could Colonel Schaeffer and Professor Hidgens possibly have to discuss? (also do people get the vibe I'm going for with Schaeffer? Because I don't know if I've made it obvious enough out of my fear of being TOO obvious)  
> I did a teeny tiny nod to Paul23, but I feel like I should re-emphasise that Paul clones won't be in this fic, nor will time travel (heck, I haven't even decided whether CCRP are relevant, but things are starting to fall into place so I'll know soon enough)


	9. The Iron Is Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma receives an unexpected visit at work, and Schaeffer must deal with the fallout of what Professor Hidgens told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the night before school starts and I didn't finish my coursework. so he's one more chapter before uploads start to slump, but hopefully I should manage another one in a couple days.  
> ALSO I've decided that in this fic, CCRP is just a normal company, no shady science and stuff. Normal. Because I can.

Emma’s neck was a lot better that morning. This was most likely down to the fact that she had slept in an actual bed.

At some point during the calming-down-Paul process, her stomach had rumbled. She was comfortable and didn't feel like getting up, so she hoped he didn’t hear it, but his head was on her chest so of course he did. He giggled, causing her to join in. He then offered to attempt that recipe with her on her second try, saying it might help to have an extra set of hands. She gladly accepted.

It went well, much better than the first time. Paul’s methodical approach balanced out her desire to just chuck things into the pan as she saw fit, and in the end they very nearly ended up with a decent meal, which both of them counted as a win. They ate back on the couch, watching some film Paul had dubbed ‘a classic’. At first, she didn’t think it would be her kind of thing, but she became increasingly invested as the plot developed. It was supposed to be based on a Stephen King book, and given that she had always loved It as a kid, it didn’t surprise her that Paul’s film turned out to be so good. That’s what they spent a lot of their evening talking about, even after getting into bed. At that point, it had been used to diffuse the awkwardness. Still, it had been a rough time for both of them, and they had realised that neither of them particularly wanted to spend the night alone. So, that was how they found themselves lying in bed at 1 in the morning, talking about The Shawshank Redemption. Eventually, the conversation moved on to other things, stories and anecdotes and opinions on things that didn’t matter. It had felt impossible when she had glanced past his head at the alarm clock on his dressing table to see that it was 3:12, and that both of them needed to be up for work soon. With that, they turned off the lights, falling asleep as far away from each other as the bed would allow. It had surprised her, therefore, to wake up lying across his chest with a leg wrapped around one of his. She moved away from him as carefully as possible, trying her best not to wake him up, before rolling onto the side that faced away from him and pretending to be asleep until the alarm went off.

Her shift at Beanies was going horribly for all the right reasons; the customers were demanding, her boss was intolerable and Zoey sang the same 3 lines of a song from Dear Evan Hansen for several hours straight. It was almost at the time when Paul was due to make an appearance when the bell above the door chimed, sending a wave of relief through her as she looked up to greet him. The man she saw, however was not who she expected.

It was Tom Houston. The entire contents of Emma’s little notepad was expelled from her mind in that moment. This was Jane’s husband, someone she hadn’t bothered to learn the name of until Jane called her and told her they were getting married (hitherto Emma had strictly referred to him as douchey quarterback, on the rare occasion that she referred to him at all). Her instincts told her to be detached in speaking with him, and she always trusted her instincts (a lesson she had learned from 311, of course), but Paul had told her that they were on good terms.

She could do this.

He approached counter at an idle pace, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his jacket. He greeted her with a simple nod. Evidently they weren’t close, even if they were good. Emma made the call that she would initiate the conversation.

“Hey Tom, what can I get ya?” That sounded normal enough.

He shrugged. “Ah, I’m just passing through.” He left it at that, looking around at the drab décor and disinterested customers.

“Oh,” was all Emma could think to reply with.

“Listen, Emma…” he began with a grimace. “Look, I know you’re probably busy right now, got a lot going on, new husband and whatever, but…”

Emma shook her head. “Nope, not a lot going on. Just business as usual.” That was the biggest lie she had ever told, and sounding nonchalant was a lot harder than she expected it to be. “You okay, Tom?”

“Yeah, uh… Becky got moved to an earlier shift, so this is the first night she’s had off in a while, so I was thinking of taking her out.” It took all of Emma’s energy not to get irritated at the memory of the fact that her brother-in-law was dating Becky- _fucking_ -Barnes. “I was wondering if you could come over, maybe watch Tim ‘til we get back?”

_Tim._

“I would love to,” Emma blurted out. “Yeah, no plans on my end. What sort of time?” Tom’s eyes lit up, and Emma would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a great deal of pressure alleviate as a result.

“Uh, could you make it to mine at about 6? Becky and I don’t wanna be out too late, it’s a school night.”

“Yeah, sure, 6 it is.” It had become a struggle to stay casual, but Tom would get suspicious if she got excited over what must be a pretty mundane occurrence.

“Thanks,” Tom said with a grin she couldn’t help but return. He walked back towards the door, but stopped for a moment and looked back. “Oh, and, uh… congratulations, Emma. I’m real happy for you.” She smiled, not knowing how to phrase her gratitude. It was only after Tom had left that she realised.

She was starting to get sucked into the lie. That sense of gratitude, it wasn’t real, none of it was real.

She needed to be careful.

Emma stopped looking up at the door when the bell chimed, and as a result, didn’t notice Paul had entered until he was right in front of her. She smiled at him warliy, and started making his black coffee before he had finished ordering it.

“So, how’s work coming along?” Paul asked, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Terrible! Thanks for asking. Oh!” How had she already forgotten?

“What, what is it?” He seemed vaguely alarmed.

“You’re never gonna guess who walked in.”

“Judging by your expression, the president?”

She wacked him with her cloth. _“Tom Houston.”_

“Uh-oh.” She wacked him again. “Right, sorry, uh, how’d it go?” She picked a cup off the stack ready.

“Not to brag, but it went amazing; he’s asked if we can babysit Tim tonight at 6.” There was no way Emma was going by herself.

Paul groaned. “Ugh, God, he always asks last minute.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Paul…”

“Yeah?” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the penny to drop. It never did. In fact, Emma could practically hear it rolling around inside his head.

Emma decided to spell it out for him to save time. “I’ve never met my nephew.” Finally, it dropped.

“Holy shit, of course, yeah, I’m sorry-“ Emma waved him off. There was too much going on in her head for her to mind that he forgot.

“I just hope I don’t mess it up.” She turned away from his to fetch the coffee pot. Those fears had seemed so distant until that moment. It was no longer something that future-Emma would be left to worry about, because in one conversation she had _become_ future-Emma. The kid simply _had_ to like her. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she let Jane down again.

“What are you talking about? Tim _loves_ you.”

Emma froze, coffee pot suspended in the air.

“He… he _loves_ me?”

Paul scoffed. “Yeah, you’re like his favourite person. Who else is there to kick his ass in Mario Kart?”

At another time, Emma might have felt indignant at the thought of the other-Emma stealing all of those moments from the life that should’ve been hers. But not then.

In an odd twist of fate, Emma was thankful.

That bridge had been built already, and it was hers to walk at her leisure. She could kick her nephew’s ass in Mario Kart. She could babysit him when Tom wanted a night off. She could do right by Jane, for the first time in her life. Part of her knew that she didn’t deserve that chance, but the rest of her was certain that letting her fears get in the way of something so vital simply wasn’t an option.

She was going to meet her nephew.

A nephew that loved her.

*

“You mean to tell me that we were tracking down the _wrong_ Emma Perkins?!” Schaeffer slumped back in her chair, frustrated.

“I’m afraid so,” said Professor Hidgens. “That mission in Guatemala was a mistake.”

“Oh, _you’re_ telling _me?!_ Of course it was a fucking mistake!”

“My question is this: did you not think to keep tabs on the real Emma from the beginning?”

She shot the Professor a furious look. “And how _exactly_ would we have done that? I mean, sure, we have the resources, but we couldn’t risk getting our cover blown tailing some stoner with wanderlust. PEIP might be small, but it’s dangerous, and I can’t afford to lose their trust. Besides, you said it yourself, when the android returned to Hatchetfield after Jane died, there was no reason to suspect her. She had her documents, her phone, _and_ the android was never told anything about the life of its genetic counterpart. It shouldn’t have known anything about Hatchetfield, it had no reason to come back here. It should never have _found_ her in the _fucking first place!”_ Schaeffer got up, storming over to a sterile metal desk. She glared at the row of tools, until something from Hidgens’s account came back to her. She picked up the thermometer and looked back at the Professor, who was flicking idly through a notebook. “And you said she’s meeting you tomorrow?” He nodded. Schaeffer cleared her throat. “Well… Professor, you signed a contract-“

He waved her off. “There’s no need to threaten me, as I have no doubt that’s where you were going; I’m already on board – I’ll do whatever you need… for a price.”

Schaeffer rolled her eyes. “You’ll get your money, that part of the agreement still stands. Though I don’t know why, considering the girl _you_ picked has caused us so many fucking problems…”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is it you’re planning to do? I personally don’t see how the project can move forward, given the machine's non-compliance, as you put it.”

“That’s what I’m working on." Schaeffer sighed, rubbing her eyes. When she looked back Professor Hidgens, who was perched on the corner of his desk, she lowered her voice to try and convey the vitality of her instructions. With any luck, the Professor would be able to catch her meaning through implication alone. "No matter what happens, Emma Perkins cannot be allowed to leave Hatchetfield, not before we’ve figured out what to do with her.”

It appeared to go over his head. “I was simply wondering what my workload is going to be like, how much of my… scientific acumen you will be requiring.”

She looked him up and down. It was true, whilst the division of the project itself had been hers and hers alone, Professor Hidgens had been the one to bring her vision to life. Engineers were plentiful in her line of work, but a biologist of such skill was a rare find. Schaeffer had been lucky that the director of PEIP had such a fascination for the tiny, pathetic town of Hatchetfield, otherwise she may never have met him. She needed his assistance, now more than ever. “Oh, we will be requiring a lot. I’m not letting SP _or_ our years of hard work go to waste.” Schaeffer glanced at her watch. “Alright, I’ll be back here tomorrow night, so you better have everything ready. I’ll sort out that pile of scrap one way or another, then we can pick up where we left off.”

“Excellent!” Professor Hidgens jumped out of his seat, waving his hands in a celebratory manner. Schaeffer had never forgotten how invested he was in his work. He seemed to pause for a moment, a question forming itself in his mind. “But, so that we’re on the same page – Emma Perkins… what exactly are you wanting me to do?”

She took in his expression, searching for any sign of dread or sympathy. There wasn’t any, so she clarified. “We need her alive – nothing else matters. Just make sure she’s here.”

“I understand. She’ll be here. I daresay it won’t be difficult; I’ve done it before, I can do it again.” The Professor stared off into space. Schaeffer was again relieved to see no trace of remorse in his eyes.

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to alert the secretary, let him know we have a plan.”

The Professor stood up, a strange sort of excitement glistening in his eyes. “I’ll show you to the door.”

*

Schaeffer waited until she was alone, having sent the technician out for coffee. She pulled open her laptop and scrolled through her contacts until she reached the right one. Schaeffer took a moment to straighten her beret before pressing dial. After a couple of rings, a face appeared on her screen – the face of Wilson Ronald Monger, the Secretary of Defence. He gave her a warm, welcoming grin.

_“Colonel Schaeffer, so good to hear from you. I take it there’s been a development?”_ He leant forward slightly, placing his elbows on the desk in front of him.

“Indeed there has, Mr. Secretary, Sir – you’ll be glad to hear that our little operation is almost back on track.” Her response elicited a triumphant smile.

_“That’s wonderful news! And that hiccup, what ever it was, it’s all been resolved?”_ The joys of working for the trigger-happy. They don’t need all the details so long as they get a shiny new toy at the end of it all.

“…Not _quite,_ Sir, but it won’t be long now.”

_“Excellent! I can’t wait to meet her again after all this time, she really is a marvellous creation. Still, a shame about that accident, but what is progress without a few bumps in the road, hey? HA!”_

“Very funny, Sir, and a good point.” It was only really a little white lie. After all, it _was_ in an accident. It just so happened that that wasn’t why the project had to be discontinued for 2 years. “Well, I’d best be getting on.”

_“Oh, yes, yes, of course. I myself have a meeting with the president in a couple of minutes now… yes, well, keep me updated, Colonel.”_ He gave her a respectful salute, which she returned.

“Will do, Mr. Secretary.” Schaeffer hung up, the plastered-on smile immediately falling from her face.

She didn’t have long. Not long at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, it's the Secretary of Defence from Black Friday! I saw a meme about him being like W.R.Monger from Monsters Vs Aliens, so that's why I called him that, but the W+R I just put whatever I liked.  
> But yeah, stuff's gonna go down (what are you doing there, Hidgens...?), and hopefully we'll get some answers at the same time.


	10. First-Name Basis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Xander are starting to catch up to whoever killed the android.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna be longer, but if I did that it would've been a _lot_ longer, and I've found that when I do bigger ones that's when the coding corrector starts adding unnecessary chunks, which takes forever to fix. Also the past 2 days have been predictably horrible, so finding time and energy to write is harder.  
> That may also be why this chapter is rather, ahem, convenient.  
> Oh, and uh... get ready for a big Shrek 2 reference.

It only took a few hours to find him. As an initial effort, Xander and John took a drive down every street in Hatchetfield, looking for any sign of the suspects that they could. About halfway down First Street, Xander pulled into the far corner of the parking lot of an office after catching a glimpse of a familiar-looking car.

The license plate was a match, but even back in their little investigation room they knew they couldn’t run it through the database without drawing unwanted attention to what they were up to. If they wanted to know more about the driver, they were going to have to do some real-world digging. Fortunately, Xander was a field agent – and a world-class bullshitter.

“It’s a good thing you wore normal clothes for this, John,” Xander stated, pulling a generic-looking name tag out of the glove compartment and pinning it to his jacket. In his mind, he added that it was also a good thing that John’s idea of casual-incognito was still semi-professional attire. He had decided to match his own style with his colleague's, deciding that they would blend in better that way.

“And why might that be?” John was yet to take his eyes off the entrance to the CCRP building. Ever the cautious observer was he.

“Because we’re about to do some _real_ sleuthing, and nothing says ‘subtle’ quite like Kevlar.”

“We’re about to what?” He stared at Xander with incredulity. Xander was unaffected, and handed him his name-tag.

“I made these this morning, they always come in handy.” Xander got out, ignoring John’s objections, and made straight for the automatic doors. His rather irritated friend caught up when they were a few feet away, whispering at him with urgency.

“Xander, I don’t think we should be going in so underprepared-“

“Shush! Just…” He paused as the doors slid open. “…act natural.” And with that, Xander strode confidently up to the help desk. A woman with shockingly red hair stood behind it, thumbing through a stack of paper in her arms. She spoke without looking up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davidson’s in a meeting – can I take a message?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” said Xander, as John looked on in bemusement. “We’re from the union.” The woman looked up, and Xander gestured to the name-tags.

“The union?” she asked. It seemed more like intrigue than suspicion, so Xander continued.

“Yes, we represent the workers of tech conglomerates stationed in both Hatchetfield and… _Clivesdale,”_ he added in disgust. He had learnt of the inter-town rivalry on his second day in Hatchetfield, and ever since then had relied on it as a surprisingly effective way to gain trust. It worked like magic; the woman smiled in response. “Tell me, are you feeling at all degraded or oppressed?”

“Uh, a _little,”_ said the woman, putting down the paper. Her eyes darted in the direction of the elevator before she carried on talking, this time in a slightly hushed voice. “We don’t even have dental.”

_“They don’t even have dental,”_ Xander repeated to John, gravely. “Okay, we’re just gonna have a look around.” Xander walked in the direction of the elevator, giving John a discrete nudge as he passed. After just a few steps, something occurred to Xander. He stopped, looking back at the woman. “Oh, by the way, I think it’d be better if ‘Mr. Davidson’ didn’t know we were here, know what I’m saying?”

She grinned and nodded, her red curls bouncing around her face. “Of course, go right in. Oh, if you need anything, I have been Melissa.”

Xander flashed her an appreciative smile. “Thanks Melissa, you’ve been very helpful. Have a good day!” He made his way to the elevator, with John close behind. He was only a _little_ smug.

*

John had always known that Xander was a genius, but there were times when he was well and truly struck by the man’s brilliance. He got them inside, a tough enough task by itself, but the inclusion of the name-tags kept them safe from unwanted attention _whilst_ they were in. It wasn’t even really a disguise, it was more like hiding in plain sight. Whatever it was, suspicion slid off the two of them like water off a duck. The moment any of the workers caught sight of the tags, they immediately went back to what they were doing. The two were invisible.

After a few minutes, John spotted him. He had turned around to respond to what had to be the loudest man John had ever encountered. He recognised the type immediately – office asshole. In spite of the possible cold-blooded killing (they couldn’t rule it out, no matter what the evidence pointed towards), John felt a little sorry for the man. Still, he appeared to be handling it well, and eventually, the loud moustached man stalked off, leaving the suspect to turn back to his computer.

John nudged Xander, jerking his chin in the direction of the watercooler. They strolled over to it, and John checked the coast was clear as Xander fixed each of them a cup. It was. He turned to his partner and lowered his voice. “I’ve just spotted him – third row, just behind the pillar.” He gave Xander a moment to find him over John’s shoulder. After a few seconds, he nodded, signalling that he'd found him. “If we’re gonna find his name, we’ve either got to ask another worker, search through employee files or get him away from his desk. I don’t particularly like the first option; without a valid reason to ask, we might stick in someone’s head, which will damage the investigation in the long wrong. The second is risky too; if we were caught, the same rules apply.”

“I’m pretty sure I could make an excuse for looking through his desk, but we’d need some kind of distraction,” said Xander, scanning the office for possibilities. “If we can’t find one, we could always follow him home; maybe he has a mailbox?”

“Very true, but we’re going to have to follow him anyway if we’re going to find the woman. We might as well get all the information we can from here.”

“Yeah, I gue- oh, look!” Xander stepped around John, allowing him to looking in the appointed direction over his shoulder. The door to the main board room had opened, and a tired-looking man walked out of it. He skulked over to the empty desk beside their suspect, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re up, Paul,” they heard him mutter. _Paul._ Now all they needed was a last name. ‘Paul’ nodded to his colleague, then activated the screensaver on his desktop and got up, walking over to the door that the tired man had come from. John waited until the door shut before giving Xander the all-clear.

As Xander made his way over to the desk, John positioned himself nearby, opting to fake-read the health and safety notices that had been blue-tacked to the back of the pillar. It only took a second of looking for the tired man to give Xander a quizzical look.

“Can I help you?”

Xander squatted down, spinning the swivel chair slightly and examining it with his brows furrowed in thought. “Oh, no, don’t mind me – I’m with the union.” He gestured to the name-tag, which seemed to satisfy the tired man.

“Oh, of course. Well, you let me know if you need anything.” The tired man offered him a warm smile, which Xander returned.

“Thanks, but I won’t take long. We’re just conducting a little inspection of working conditions. Tell me…”

“Bill, Bill Woodward,” the tired man said, offering his hand. Xander shook it.

“Tell me, Bill, has the air conditioning always made that noise?”

John smiled to himself; Xander was in his element. Allowing him to continue in his charade, John moved away from the pillar, deciding to pull out his phone and take a few pictures of the vents. He truthfully had no idea whether or not that was something a union worker would do, but if it wasn’t he could always say he was new to the job ( _very_ new, as it so happened). He was about 3 pictures in when a flash of red appeared in the corner of his vision. It was Melissa, clutching a clipboard. She smiled up at him.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” John replied, slipping his phone back inside his pocket. Melissa stepped around him to pin a sheet of paper to a notice board he had been in the way of.

“Please, call me Melissa. I just thought I’d remind you guys that if you need anything, I’d be happy to help.”

John was severely tempted to flat-out ask her what Paul’s last name was, but that, as he had already determined, was a horrible idea. If he could keep her talking, however, maybe she would let slip something useful.

“That’s very kind of you, ma’am- uh, _Melissa_. Have you been working here long?”

She shrugged. “A couple of years.”

“And how have they treated you over the course of your employment?” _Eat your heart out, Xander._

“Oh, pretty good. Yeah, I’d say any problems are more to do with the actual CCRP head office, but in the Hatchetfield branch we’re kinda like a little family. I mean, we all went to Paul’s wedding a couple weeks ago, so yeah, it’s a fairly decent work environment when it comes to the people.”

John feigned his curiosity as mere courtesy. “Paul?” _Please say it._

“Oh, that’s the guy who’s desk your friend’s inspecting.” _Damn it._ “What’s he looking for, anyway?”

John looked back at Xander, who had taken to fiddling with the wires on the back of Paul’s computer, causing the monitor to wobble slightly. “Oh, just inspecting the standards for, uh… facilities.”

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to pay a lot of notice to his faltering. “Oh, right, got it.”

John hoped his next question would appear to be nothing more than a conventional way to continue the conversation. He decided to go for a phrasing that could still be for the purpose of union work. After all, he didn’t want specific answers to anything, he just needed to keep Paul as a subject matter. “So, when you said you all went to Paul’s wedding, do you mean just the floor staff, or was your boss also invited?”

“Yup, Mr. Davidson was there too. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, it’s weird to have your boss at your wedding, but honestly it’s not like that here. He’s super down to Earth, and you get the sense that he really cares about us.” Her expression was a little too serious for her words, and John suspected that she may have been exaggerating her praise for the sake of not making her boss look bad to someone who (for all she knew) could get him fired. John had just decided that he wasn’t going to get much more out of Melissa, when she muttered, “Not like _that_ would ever be the weirdest thing at that wedding, mind.”

“Excuse me?” Downplaying his interest became a struggle.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Melissa dismissed. “Sorry, I have a tendency to overshare,” she explained with a nervous giggle.

“That’s quite alright, Melissa.” He _had_ to keep her talking. “For what it’s worth, I’ve spent the past 5 minutes taking pictures of vents, so I’ll listen to anything at this point.” He kept his tone humorous. It worked; Melissa chuckled, nodding in admission. A mischievous look lit up her face, and she checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Satisfied, she leaned in slightly.

With her voice hushed as she shared her gossip, Melissa said, “Okay, so, they’d just shared these beautiful vows – like, half of us were crying – and the guy was just about to officiate the marriage, when this homeless guy _bursts_ through the door, runs up the aisle, _points_ at Emma-“ _Emma!_ “- and starts ranting that she’s a liar, that she’s not real, some really crazy shit! I mean, we all just sat there, freaked out. Luckily, her brother-in-law stepped in and he was able to get him out, but Emma was so shaken up about it she left. I don’t blame her. See, I told you it was weird!” Melissa pointed at his dropped jaw and smirked, victorious.

He snapped it shut in an attempt to compose himself. “So what happened next?”

“Oh, well, Paul went to go and find her, and I guess calm her down. At the reception, Emma said they just took a breather for a few minutes, which, again, I don’t blame her. Weddings are super stressful, I couldn’t even imagine having to deal with something like _that_. But yeah, they came back, finished the ceremony, and everything was okay,” she finished with a shrug.

“But what do you think set that man off?” John figured anyone would be equally as interested as him, even without the investigation.

“The homeless guy? Oh, I’ve heard stories about him, he’s harmless. I’m pretty sure he’s got paranoid schizophrenia, which is why nobody’s ever hired him since the plant closed. It’s a shame, when you think about it, that there’s no one around to help him.” Melissa looked up at him with solemn sympathy, which he tried his best to return. He had too much to think about to stay entirely present in the conversation.

Mercifully, Xander appeared at his side. _Perfect timing._ “Looks like we have _everything we need,”_ Xander said, placing a degree of emphasis that only John would pick up on. “Thanks again for letting us in, Melissa.”

She smiled, shrugging. “No problem. Well, If you’re all finished, I’ll show you to the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also didn't know how I was gonna end this one, so how I would've ended it is just gonna be how I start the next one.  
> And the homeless guy still crashed the wedding, but if there was no time-travel, it couldn't be Ted. Guess I'm gonna have to give him another name.  
> Also, I don't think I explained that Bill was tired because of the meeting. And Melissa's "little family" isn't _quite_ the dynamic as her colleagues would describe it, but I've decided that she's an optimist.


	11. Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander and John follow Paul as he leaves work, hoping to approach him once he's alone, but there's a slight complication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And some other stuff happens.

Xander and John had a perfect view of the CCRP building’s entrance when Paul walked out of it at 17:05. They also had a perfect view of him walking straight past his car, stopping for a moment, realising what he had done, and walking back to it, looking around to check that no one had seen his mistake. _Someone_ had, and that someone asked John to make a note of it in case they needed to refer back to it later.

They waited patiently, watching him pull out of the lot from their position across the street, where they had moved to avoid detection. It wasn’t until he had driven a few yards down the road and started indicating right that Xander started to follow him. He maintained a steady distance between the two cars, enough to keep him in their line of sight but that was about it. People who commit murders are, typically speaking, rather paranoid in the wake of their crime, and they couldn’t afford to trigger it. Having said that, Paul seemed to be a relatively normal individual, going about his life as if nothing was troubling him. He was even driving sensibly.

Either the rules are different when the victim is a machine, or Paul was a psychopath. Xander remembered what John had said: the only way they were going to make any sense of it would be to speak directly to the people involved. Given what happened, _they_ were probably just as confused.

Paul’s journey happened to be a short one, as he pulled up in front of a small, dingy coffee shop only a couple of streets away from where he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, Xander could see John scribbling the word BEANIES into his notepad. Rather than stopping behind him, he passed Paul’s car (who didn’t get out) and parked further down the street. They were waiting long enough to consider moving closer, when the door to the shop swung open, and the woman – who they could only assume was Emma – walked out. She gave Paul a small wave and a smile before getting in the passenger side. They talked for a moment, but they were too far away to lip-read. Eventually, they set off, and Xander waited until they overtook him to continue tailing.

The second journey was slightly longer, a 10-minute drive to the edge of the Hatchetfield suburbs. Any minute now, they would be face-to-face, able to ask the questions that had plagued them for days, perhaps even uncovering something sinister in the process. There was a strong possibility they would run, or even turn violent, but Xander and John were military men; they were prepared for anything.

At least, that was what they had _thought._ They most certainly hadn’t prepared for the suspects pulling up to a house with a mailbox sporting a surname that didn’t match their own, or for the small child that bolted out of the front door to crash into the arms of the unsuspecting woman the moment she got out of the car. Xander stopped a few yards from them as a figure appeared in the open doorway, one who he instantly recognised. PEIP had a file on every Hatchetfield citizen who served or had served their country in any kind of military service, in anything from the Navy to coast guards. This was the house of Tom Houston, who served 2 tours in Iraq, the first of which started in March 2003 during the American invasion. For a moment, Xander wondered if that was why they were there, to ask the opinion of a soldier, but the way the young boy hugged Emma, and the fond look Tom Houston was giving them suggested some kind of familial bond.

Xander and John sat in silence as the party disappeared into the house, then gave each other a look. They had been out for hours. If they left it much longer, people at the base would start asking questions.

They had gained some useful information. They knew that Paul’s last name was Matthews, and they suspected that the woman was his bride, Emma, but they would need to confirm that. John had filled Xander in on Melissa’s story, which was a fairly convincing chunk of evidence, but too flimsy to depend on. It would need further inquiry to be of any use.

They needed more information. The android, the motive for the stabbing, the homeless man… it had to fit together somehow.

Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t afford to wait any longer, not that day. Based on John’s expression, he knew it too.

They at least knew where Paul Matthews worked, and with any luck, they would know more by the time they approached him the next day.

Xander turned the car back around, and started driving in the direction of the base.

*

“AUNT EMMA!” a voice cried as a small figure collided with her, almost pushing her back against the car. Looking down, a mess of sandy hair was nuzzling under her chin.

“Hey Tim!” Emma hoped she sounded casual enough. He pulled away a little so he could look up at her, arms still wrapped around her middle.

He was so grown up.

“Hey uncle Paul!” he said over her shoulder. She turned slightly to see Paul walking around the car towards them, then looked back at her nephew, who was grinning from ear-to-ear. “Dad said you weren’t gonna get here until 6!” It felt staggering that someone could look so elated just to see her.

“Oh, yeah, we called and asked if we could come over a little earlier, there wasn’t much point in going home first,” she explained, shocked that she was able to keep her voice from shaking. “Plus, I haven’t seen you in… uh, a _while,_ so…” Unsure of how to finish, she placed a hand on the top of his head and messed up his hair, which he shook off with a giggle.

“C’mon, I’m watching Monster House!” Before she knew what was happening, Tim had grabbed a hold of her arm and started dragging her towards the house. When they made it to the door, Emma noticed that Tom had been watching them. He was looking at Tim with an affection she’d never associated with him. He was also dressed a little smarter than she expected; Emma tried her best not to think about the Becky Barnes situation. Instead, she focused on the cheerful kid that was telling her all about his intended Halloween costume.

As he chatted away, his eyes would occasionally meet hers, and he’d give her this breath-taking smile, lighting his face as he talked. He had Jane’s eyes. _Her_ eyes. The very eyes she could no longer look at in the mirror were staring back at Emma with undeserved admiration, but she couldn’t feel guilty, not when he looked so happy.

“His bedtime’s at half 8, and don’t let him try and convince you otherwise,” said Tom. He was standing in the doorway behind her, a jacket slung over his shoulder.

“You leaving already?” Paul asked. He had sat down on the other side of Tim, who had pulled Emma with him onto the worn leather couch that occupied the centre of the room.

“Uh, yeah, Becky says she’s nearly ready, so I’m gonna head over. You guys don’t mind cooking, do ya? You can use whatever you find, just make sure it’s not too late.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Emma said with a nod, making a mental note to see what kind of take-out could be ordered to that area.

Tom fished out a set of keys from his pocket, and Tim rushed off the couch to hug him. So close to one another, the two looked nothing alike, but the affection between them was undeniable.

“Bye Dad, tell Miss Becky I said hi,” he mumbled into his chest. Tom straightened out of the embrace, ruffling Tim’s hair the same way she had.

“Sure thing, kiddo. You have fun with these two.” He shot Emma a grateful smile.

She hoped to God he would.

*

“Paul?”

It was almost 9 o’clock. Tim had been in bed for a while, in accordance with Tom’s stipulation. He was due back any minute, as he had texted him when they were about to leave the restaurant.

It had been a fairly relaxed evening. The movie was almost over, finishing before they were even supposed to have arrived. From there, Emma had brought up Mario Kart, looking to Paul to see if she was doing the right thing. He had nodded in encouragement, as Tim excitedly rushed to set up the game. As pleased as she felt to do something that Tim would enjoy, she had never actually played it. She walked into the kitchen, motioning for Paul to follow, and told him as much as she fixed them all some water. He went through the basic mechanics of the game and told her a little about the controls in a hushed whisper, then placed a hand on her shoulder and told her to take a deep breath. It worked; she went back to Tim ready to try and tackle whatever he would throw at her. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a banana peel, along with various other things. To put it lightly, Tim absolutely wiped the floor with Emma, to the point that she was afraid he would suspect something. She congratulated him with a _“Damn kid, you’re getting good – have you been practicing?”,_ which seemed to satisfy him. The rest of the evening passed without much bother. No longer in the mood for ordering in, Emma decided she would give cooking another try. After routing through the cupboards, they decided on a pasta dish from a recipe book they’d found stuffed onto a shelf. She was even able to make it herself, with very little assistance from Paul, and had gladly accepted his sarcastic praise concerning her thumbs remaining intact as they ate. He had swapped it for sincerity, however, after Tim had gone to bed.

Emma wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. It was only the fact that, as he washed up the pots they had used to cook, he had brought up the possibility of her talking to Tom about marriage advice before they left that she realised she needed to say _something._

The thought of staying in Hatchetfield had always repulsed her. The town had brought her nothing but pain and rejection, and the freedom she had felt to leave it behind her was unparalleled. The only thing that she could even be tempted to stay for was Jane, yet even she represented everything that made Emma want to leave.

Emma had never felt like part of a family, and she was never able to understand how easy it was for Jane. In the end, she put it down to the fact that Jane was the capable one, the one that everyone loved and who did everything right. She could accept that, probably because it had been drilled into her all through childhood. She only knew her own limits, regardless of what other people expected of her. That was what made it so easy for her to leave; she had wanted to get away from the suffocating intimacy of small-town existence. Everyone so desperate to know everything about everyone else, freely dishing out judgment as if their own sad, one-dimensional lives made them invincible because everyone was too boring to have any flaws. She’d wanted out. She’d wanted to go somewhere far away, where she didn’t have to live constantly in the knowledge that she wasn’t good enough.

Emma had never felt like part of a family… but she had only looked at Tim for a total of three seconds to become absolutely certain that she could never leave him again.

The way he looked at her, with admiration and trust and _love…_ she hadn't earned it, but by God there wasn’t a chance that she would let herself disappoint him.

She was done fucking things up.

Paul turned around, drying his hands on the dishcloth. “What’s up?”

She thought about Tim. About his eyes and his smile and his laugh, and the way he talked so fast when he was excited that she could barely understand him. Another person who had lost Jane, had actually _been_ there, and yet was strong enough to come out the other side as strong as ever. She could learn a lot from him.

She thought of their agreement. Asking Tom for marriage advice, answering his concerned questions with a shrug and a sigh and a lie about some fight that never happened. Dropping in a few days later for a chat and a rant about a disagreement that didn’t exist. Spending a night alone in the flat as Paul stayed over with a friend after a shouting-match they hadn’t been in. Watching someone else’s life fall apart, and probably ending up the one to shoulder all the blame placed on her by people who thought she’d grown out of being so flighty.

She thought about Paul. How fucked up his life had become. How, in spite of this, he had been nothing but kind to her, even after she called him a pervert outside his place of work. She wondered what he really wanted. Well, whatever it was, she was about to make things a whole lot more complicated for both of them.

“Paul, I… I can’t do this.”

*

That wasn’t why she went looking for him. It was never her intention.

She needed answers, and who else to get them from than someone who was there when the questions were asked. There was a contingency, but there was a chance it could go horribly wrong. She wasn’t about to risk it until she had exhausted every possible alternative.

The sight of him was _pitiful._

He cowered at her feet, a shrivelled mess of a man, hunched in on himself like a foetus.

He didn’t even hear her approach, not until she was close enough to smell the vodka on his breath. He had looked up at her, face shrouded in shadow. There was no hint of recognition.

“Spare change for the homeless?” he had asked, holding out his hand expectantly.

“Good evening, Mr. Fletcher,” she had replied, ignoring him. Instantly, his eyes glazed over in terror, and he scrambled backwards.

_“You!”_ he cried. Schaeffer started panicking. If someone were to hear him…

“Damien, calm down,” she soothed, holding up her hands, palms facing out.

“Go away!” He pressed his ears closed and slammed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

Frustrated, Schaeffer grabbed him by the front of his coat and slapped him, hard, across the face. It did nothing. His hysteria continued to build.

“Devil woman,” he sobbed. “Devil woman!”

“Mr. Fletcher, I need to know how to reason with the SP unit-“

His eyes shot open. “That’s not Emma Perkins! That’s _not_ Emma Perkins!” Evidently he still remembered, even if his mind was gone.

She hadn’t been there to witness the accident, she only knew what it had done to him. It had turned a brilliant mind into a confused disgrace, and now there would be no reasoning with him. Part of her wanted to help him.

The rest knew he was a liability.

He knew too much, and he couldn’t be contained.

He had been too busy thrashing around on the floor of that alleyway to see the gun she had pulled from her pocket.

It was never her intention.

It was her _duty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methinks Jane's death was an important game changer for Emma in TGWDLM and BF.  
> And yup, I named the Homeless guy. Then I killed him. I was originally gonna call him Joey Richter, but I realised I wouldn't be able to kill him off if I did. So... RIP Damien Fletcher, 2018


	12. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Emma deal with her confession, and Xander and John prepare for the next step in their investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want more to happen in these chapters but I have to keep them shorter because of the coding thingy.

“You can’t… huh?” He was staring at her, confused. She waited, hoping that he would understand what she was referring to.

A couple of seconds passed. The dishcloth dropped to the floor.

“…You can’t do this?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. Okay. _Okay_ … Well… what do we… why is… _Emma_ …” Paul grew increasingly agitated as he spoke, leaning against the sink and dragging his fingers through his hair. “So, you… what, you want to _stay?”_

She groaned. “Ugh, I don’t know, _maybe.”_

_“Maybe?”_ Paul repeated with incredulity. His eyebrows shot up, and Emma began to comprehend a sense of rising irritation in him. It made her feel slightly defensive.

“It’s _complicated_ , okay?”

“Yeah, y’know what, I think I might just be aware of that already.” His sarcasm was biting. Anger had started to creep into his features. “For fuck’s sake! You know what, Emma…“ he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Look, do you think this is easy for me, huh? Do you think I _like_ all this… this uncertainty!?” Emma had to strain to keep her voice down for Tim’s sake as she whispered her retaliation at Paul. He said nothing. He simply crossed his arms and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I _hate_ this fucking town, okay? But now…”

Paul dropped his hand. “But now _what?”_ he snapped, glaring at her. She didn’t know what she expected of his response, but cold fury wasn’t it. For such a mild-mannered person, it was almost surreal to feel the full weight of his judgement, but there it was, plain as day, burrowing into her like shrapnel. Emma knew she might be being unreasonable, but she would at least try to explain herself in the hope that he would understand where she was coming from.

“But now… fuck, I just spent an evening with my _nephew_. I have a nephew! And he totally _loves_ me. And I just… I never had that here, that’s why I left. Fuck, I’ve never had that _at all._ I was better off alone, away from this place. I only came back here because I had no choice, and now Jane is-“ Emma’s voice cut off, and she waited a second until she could choke back the sob that was trying to escape before continuing. “My sister is dead. The one person who actually gave a shit about me and I pushed them away, and I can never take that back. I just wanna make things right, and all these people think I’m part of their _family._ I don’t deserve it, and I don’t know how to handle it, but I can’t keep running away. I can’t do to _Tim_ what I did to Jane.”

She held his stare, even through the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes. She had never been that honest.

His face had softened sometime during her rant. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he was still mad, though; his life was held in the balance just as much as hers.

Emma didn’t know what she expected, why she thought she could just say something like that and think it would end well. Pretty much exactly one day ago she had held Paul as he had cried onto her chest over what they were going through. He was having to come to terms with losing _so much_ , and there she was, making matters even worse _. Again._

“This is such a fucking mess,” she said, turning away from him to look for a tissue. There was a box of them on the counter, which she dragged towards herself. Paul stayed silent as she dried her eyes. He hadn’t moved an inch by the time she looked back at him, still staring at her with that same pained expression, the way one would look if they were watching an injured puppy limping around. She didn’t need his sympathy. “Y’know what, fuck it, forget I said anything. I’ll figure something out. I don’t know, maybe I’ll move to Clivesdale or something, to stay close.” She sighed, pushing the emotion out of her voice. “I’m sorry, I swear I’m not trying to make this difficult-“

“Don’t apologise,” he whispered, before clearing his throat. “I, uh… I get it. Shit, I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t angry _with_ you, I just…”

“It’s okay, I get it too,” she tried to sooth, but he shook his head.

“No, Emma, it’s not.” He was abrupt, but the anger seemed to have left him. “Look, I need to say something, but if I do, I’m afraid it’s gonna drive you out of here, and I can’t do that if you want to figure something else out.”

Emma’s ears pricked up; the garage door was opening. She looked at the clock hanging behind Paul’s head. 9:02 pm. Tom was home.

“Tell me later, okay?”

His eyes flitted between her and the door. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Emma checked her reflection in the side of the toaster. The crying hadn’t left much of a trace, not enough for Tom to notice.

She walked back into the living room and curled up on the couch, flicking the TV through several channels until she found one playing re-runs of Scrubs. If she hadn’t felt slightly drained, she might have laughed at the sudden appearance of the world’s tallest doctor on the screen. She did, though, so she didn’t. Instead, she sat down on the couch, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen as Paul joined her. She scooted closer to him upon hearing Tom’s approach, curling up against his side as if they were just an average couple relaxing on a normal week-night. Paul gave her a look, one that can only be described as communicating the word _“Uhhhh…”_ and kept his arm suspended rather than placing it on the shoulder it hovered above.

“For Tom,” Emma clarified. He nodded, placing his hand on her arm and instinctively rubbing the sleeve of her uniform with his thumb. She shifted herself slightly until she could lean her head against his chest, and waited for her brother-in-law to find them.

*

“So, what were you gonna tell me?”

They had driven home in silence, which Paul sincerely hoped wasn’t going to become a regular occurrence. Sitting that close to someone with the air so thick with tension it was suffocating was a new level of uncomfortable. Well, not singing-and-dancing uncomfortable, but still enough to be a problem.

He hadn’t meant to get angry, especially not with her. It was difficult to remember that as much as Emma resembled his wife, it was never her. All of the experiences that were supposed to have shaped her since she came back to Hatchetfield had never happened. This was a woman who had lost a great deal, and hadn’t yet had the time to learn how to deal with that.

The moment she had started to get upset, he realised he had made a mistake. It was just the thought of her staying…

He hated how much he wanted it.

That was what had done it for him. The thought of having her so near, and yet with an impossible distance between them. It was already getting close to being unbearable. Like before, when she had rested against him as they waited for Tom, for a moment of pure instinct it seemed like it would have been the most natural thing in the world to kiss the top of her head, but he couldn’t. She wasn’t his to kiss. Truthfully, up until then he didn’t know how he was going to bear her leaving, but at least he would have been sure in the knowledge that it was the right thing.

Paul was torn between what he wanted and what was healthy. To have that possibility dangled in front of him was torment.

The possibility of Emma. That fiery spirit he had fallen in love with. He was in a limbo, unable to comprehend what had happened, unwilling to let go of the past and completely unprepared for the future. _The future._ What future could they have together? As roommates? Living a lie he desperately wanted to be true, clinging to the memory of what was lost, and living in denial of the fact that the better half of himself was still missing.

And yet she wasn’t. It was _her._ The same walk, the same smile, the same biting-down on the inside of her cheek when she was thinking, hair tucked behind her ears in the mornings and stroking the back of his head when he was upset. Every instinct, every quip, every taste and interest and opinion. The same vulnerabilities that he had always felt privileged to be trusted enough to witness.

Only this time it wasn’t trust – it was survival.

It wouldn’t be fair to tell her.

“One sec,” he mumbled, walking over to the sideboard and pulling out two white remotes from one of the drawers. He chucked one to her. “I was going to tell you that you’re shit at Mario Kart.”

Emma scoffed. “It was my first time.” It was obvious that she didn’t believe that was what he wanted to say before, but she didn’t look like she was going to call him out on it anytime soon.

“Yeah, and you had your ass handed to you by a child, so we’re not going to sleep until you’ve beaten me.”

“Paul…” Emma shook her head, a reluctant smile forming. “We have work in the morning.”

“Chicken.”

She was momentarily taken aback. He wasn’t worried; he knew exactly how to bring out her competitive side.

It worked. “Oh, it is _on.”_

*

“Did you see the news?” John looked up to see an out-of-breath Xander entering their office, shutting the door behind him.

“Xander, we have…” he checked his watch, “7 minutes until we have to leave, you better not blow this case open.” It was Friday morning, and John had just been creating an alibi for himself as taking a research day with Xander to assist with his paper before they started their search for the homeless man. They only had an hour before they needed to head over to the CCRP building to begin their stakeout. He was determined to make contact, they couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity, so time was of the utmost importance in tracking down their new lead.

Xander gave a nervous chuckle. “The homeless man was found dead this morning.”

*

Xander sipped his disgusting coffee and flicked idly through the copy of the Hatchetfield Gazette that someone had left on his table. When Paul had arrived to work on foot, they had thought it wise to keep an eye on the woman, which was how Xander found himself sitting in the corner of Beanies, throwing occasional glances around the establishment to keep track of her whereabouts without being too obvious. Thankfully, one of the other workers had called her Emma when trying to get her attention, so he was able to message John that her name had been verified.

She had seemed normal enough when he ordered, if a little tired.

_“You okay there, ma’am?”_ he had asked as she made his latte.

She had given him a small chuckle. _“’Ma’am’? What are you, 80?”_ She picked up a mug off the tray behind her, and he took the opportunity of her back being turned to surreptitiously bug the underside of the counter. _“Yeah, I’m fine, just a late night. What about you? Hungover?”_ Xander didn’t realise what she was getting at until she nodded at his sunglasses.

_“Oh, uh, yeah, a little. ‘S why need the caffeine.”_

_“Of course, why else would anyone choose to drink here?”_

_“Emma,”_ a curly haired woman had interrupted. _“How many times do I have to tell you about not insulting the products in front of customers?”_

Emma had turned out to have a point; the coffee was shit. Still, there were a lot of things Xander was willing to sacrifice in the name of duty, and one of those happened to be his tastebuds.

It was due to be a dull morning, but he infinitely preferred it over what John was doing. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in that car, typing away on a laptop, searching for any available information on the dead man. The article he had read that morning hadn’t given a lot away about his life, but they had found out his name. Dr. Damien Fletcher – a doctor of what, they were yet to find out. He could’ve been anything from a brain surgeon to a geologist for all they knew.

Xander ordered several drinks over the duration of his visit, selecting a different one from the menu each time he went up to the counter. This had amused Emma to no end, and she joked that no matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t going to find a good one. Yet again, she was right. If anything, they seemed to be getting worse, but he would rather be amusing than suspicious. On his third drink (an especially disappointing mocha) she had asked him what his deal was, but not in an accusatory tone. More like she was trying to unpick the casual mystery of a slightly unorthodox customer. He figured that less would be more in terms of making an excuse, so simply replied that he had arranged to meet someone, but had nothing else to do with his morning and couldn’t see the point in staying home. She accepted it with no further questioning, but instead confided that at least she was getting repeat business from a tolerable customer, as she dusted his drink with cocoa powder. That much Xander had already realised; the average patrons of Beanies turned out to be the sort of entitled people that will pay for expensive coffee even if it’s terrible, purely to demonstrate that they can afford it. Xander recalled to her a particularly obnoxious blonde woman he had witnessed complaining earlier, to which Emma rolled her eyes and explained that she came by most mornings after dropping her _‘hell-spawn’_ off at school.

His first impression of Emma hadn’t been the best. When he was waiting in line for his first drink, she had seemed impatient and curt, maybe even rude to the man she had been serving. But, as time went on, and more and more customers filtered through, he realised just how justified she was in her open bitterness. Not only that, but she appeared to have the remarkable ability of treating every customer the exact same way at first – polite, with just a hint of indifference. Textbook retail-face. Her spite seemed to be reserved for the customers that deserved at, which was a quality Xander found easy to respect; he started sliding his tips to her directly from then on, rather than putting them in the jar, as her colleague spent most of the time on her phone and it didn’t seem fair for her to get a cut.

At drink number 6 (a watery cappuccino), a familiar-looking man walked in and joined the queue. Xander was so focused on observing Paul Matthews (as he had learned from a document that had accidentally been sent to his neighbour’s printer) that he nearly didn’t notice John taking a seat beside him.

“We can listen to the conversation in a bit,” he mumbled.

John raised his eyebrows. “HPM-18?”

Xander shook his head in disgust. _“19,_ what do you think I am, a caveman?”

“Yes, I suppose the 18 is a bit limited.”

“Limited? It’s like listening from inside a cup of water. _Limited,”_ he mocked. As a man who became so frustrated with PEIP’s covert observation equipment that he learned everything there was to know about it so that he could single-handedly update each and every device in their inventory, Xander was not prepared to take such slander.

“How is she?” John made no indication of who he was referring to, but then he didn’t really have to.

“She seems nice. Well, okay, maybe not _nice_ exactly, but… good.” He glanced at john and took a sip of his coffee, which he instantly regretted. “Honestly, I can’t see her being involved in any of this. Or _him_ for that matter.”

“I completely agree. These aren’t the sort of people that get swept up in the sort of things Damien Fletcher did…” John gave Xander a meaningful look.

“You found something?”

He nodded gravely. “As soon as Mr. Matthews has left, I’ll order a drink and extract the HPM- _17_ -" Xander kicked him under the table, "-then, when we’re finished, we’ll head back and I’ll go over what I found. Is that any good?” John gestured to the mug in Xander’s hand.

Remembering how much John loved coffee, Xander smiled. “Oh, you’ll _love_ it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I made Paul seem angry without being unreasonable in the first bit, I just figured he's been through a lot.  
> Also gonna be doing some explaining next chapter, with the rest to be revealed later on (which I'm so looking forward to writing, because there's an idea I've been waiting to share for a while.)  
> Also also I definitely know how the rest of this fic is gonna gooooo, hehehe  
> (I included another Scrubs reference in honour of ShhImWriting, who has an ongoing fic called 'On The Outside Looking In' that I'm obSESSED with)


	13. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Xander make a breakthrough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter shouldn't have been written so soon, but if my school wants me to prepare for my A-levels on my half-day then they should stop giving me surprise tests.

“We have 5 hours until the procedure begins, so either you tell me that everything’s ready to be moved, or I’m gonna recommend you as a test-candidate.” It gave Schaeffer an immense satisfaction to see just how uncomfortable the technician became whenever she entered the room. As it was, she’d had to spend a great deal of her time getting everything ready, so she hadn’t been able to see it as much for a short while.

“Uh, I believe so, I can finish a lot of the adjustments in the lab,” the technician squeaked. “The more practical stuff… we’ll have to wait and see.”

Shaeffer nodded grimly. Plan B had always been a risk, hence why she had struggled against it for 2 years, but now that they were left with no choice, everything _had_ to go exactly according to plan. There were no more contingencies, no more lies she could spin. Her entire operation was resting on a knife’s edge.

She had heard nothing from PEIP, which was a good sign. With any luck they would have moved on from the case of the mysterious remains without another thought. After all, she had left them with nothing, and if they believed the case had been reassigned, surely even John wouldn’t risk his career over something he couldn’t even know was a threat. Which, in all fairness, it wasn’t.

Well, not to PEIP at least.

Schaeffer didn’t like plan B. It wasn’t anywhere near as efficient, but she had dug herself into a hole with the involvement of the secretary. She’d needed funding, but once you make promises, you have to deliver on them for better or worse. Luckily, there would be no way for him to tell the difference.

*

_**Power Plant to Close Amidst Accusations** _

__

_The Hatchetfield power plant, constructed in 1963, has become a sort of miniature landmark for the citizens of our tiny town. It’s situation at the edge of the Witchwood forest makes it a perfect reminder of how far we’ve come as a people since settlers first founded Hatchetfield in 1824. However, after 55 years, Clivesdale Communications Resource and Power has made the decision to close down the plant, following a string of embezzlement allegations starting in May last year, merely 3 months after they acquired the site as an official CCRP outlet. It would seem our skittish neighbours are attempting to avoid further scandal, but one might argue that is exactly what the closing down of the power plant will bring them._

__

_Take Damien Fletcher (above right), for example. He has been employed as a janitor in the plant’s sanitation department since December of 2017 (following his diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, which resulted in the loss of his license to practice psychology). He was a part of a local scheme to help vulnerable citizens find work and stability, after finding himself unable to function in other environments. Said scheme has since been discontinued, and thus the chances of Dr. Fletcher being able to find work once the branch is closed are slim to none, as will be the case for many hardworking Hatchetfield citizens employed by CCRP._

__

_So, what will become of these heroes of Hatchetfield? Are they destined to fall victim to the corporate greed of Clivesdale’s most notorious tech conglomerate? In their official statement, CCRP has declared that they fully intend to keep their Hatchetfield administrative branch open for the foreseeable future (the previous office of yours truly, the Hatchetfield Gazette). I, for one, only hope that all those who have lost their livelihood are able to secure themselves the futures they deserve in the wake of this devastating blow._

__

_**-Article by guest journalist Donna Daggit, co-host of Morning Cup O’ News, January 14th, 2019-** _

__

John took the laptop as Xander handed it back to him and closed the tab for the Hatchetfield Gazette’s website. Rather than immediately continue with his findings, he waited for Xander’s response.

__

It took him a minute to gather his thoughts. “So if Fletcher was a psychologist… do you think he had something to do with the development of the AI?” Xander asked.

__

“I believe that’s a safe assumption to make. It would appear that he knew something these people didn’t want him sharing. It was omitted from the article you showed me, but the ‘attack’ that killed him, according to the M.E.’s report,” (which John opened on the laptop and angled towards Xander), “was a single gunshot wound to the glabella – right here.” He pressed his finger directly between his eyebrows. “He was killed efficiently, and with precision. There’s something else too,” John said, bringing up another document. “I’ve managed to get a hold of his certificate of diagnosis-“

__

“Jeez, how high is your clearance?” Xander interjected.

__

“Higher than yours,” John shot back, zooming in on the signature at the bottom of the document. “Apparently he was diagnosed by an associate who worked alongside him in the practice – do you recognise the name?”

__

Xander squinted at the document, then shook his head. “Should I?”

__

“I suppose not, I myself only came across it this morning. I did some digging into the lives of our suspects, and found their marriage certificate, dated October 17th, 2019 – 15 days ago.” John brought up the certificate in a separate tab and placed it beside Damien Fletcher’s diagnosis. Dragging them closer together, John lined up the name _“Emma Perkins”_ with the name he indicated on the diagnosis: _“Jane Perkins”._

__

“They're related?” Xander half-asked, half-exclaimed.

__

“That’s not all.” He then opened up the last document he had to show Xander – Jane Perkins’ death certificate. “It’s dated at less than a month after she diagnosed him.”

__

Xander examined the document for a moment. “…A car crash… anything else on that?”

__

John shook his head. “That’s a negative; I found a report on it in the Gazette, but nothing about the victim was mentioned. There was one fatality, 3 casualties. The driver was inebriated and claimed to have lost control of the vehicle when approaching an intersection.”

__

Xander gave him a look John recognised. “John… this could be a full-blown conspiracy…”

__

“I know.” He stared out of the front windscreen, fixing his eyes on the entrance to the CCRP building. “Which is why it’s absolutely imperative that we make contact.” He thought back to the recording they listened to of the conversation the suspects had had at Beanies, and began forming a plan in his head. “If Ms. Perkins is visiting a professor of hers, we should approach Mr. Matthews on his way home, take him the rest of the way and interview him there while we wait for her to return. Whatever happens, we can’t give him a chance to make contact with her or he might tell her to run before we can explain ourselves. And, based on everything we found, that would put her in a significant amount of danger.”

__

*

__

The moment Paul stepped outside, something felt off. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was almost as if the entire universe had shifted 3 inches to the left; nothing had changed, but it was definitely wrong.

__

He shook off the feeling as best as he could as he started his walk home. Perhaps it was because he had driven to work for half of the week for the sake of taking Emma out after their shifts were over, first to see Professor Hidgens, and then to look after Tim. Today, though, she had taken her own car, which they had thankfully thought to drive home that night at the motel, with Emma following his car close behind as he led them back to their apartment. She was getting better at her Hatchetfield geography, though, and had insisted that ‘it was all coming back to her’.

__

They finished work at the same time, meaning that as he walked, Emma would be making her way over to the community college. She had told him that morning she was going to ask if she could start from scratch rather than quit the course, claiming that she would just make the commute when she ended up moving to Clivesdale. He had wanted to respond with _‘Fuck Clivesdale’,_ and to tell her that if she wanted to stay, she should stay at _home,_ but he had managed to catch himself every time. He reminded himself, again and again, that Emma Perkins did not love him. It hurt, but it had to be done.

__

Paul was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the car that had pulled onto the sidewalk a few feet in front of him, not until he almost slammed into the man that had climbed out of the driver’s seat. He was a little shorter than Paul, but his shoulders were broad and his eyes were piercing; he was the sort of man who was instantly intimidating even if he wasn’t doing anything. Paul stopped in his tracks and mumbled an apology, averting his gaze as he moved to step around the vehicle.

__

“Paul Matthews?” the man asked, causing Paul’s blood to run cold. He stood like a deer in headlights as another man got out of the passenger side.

__

“What do you want?” Paul asked, straining to keep his voice neutral.

__

“Paul, we need you to come with us,” the other man replied. He could feel him staring him down even behind the man’s sunglasses.

__

This was it. They’d found them.

__

“Please, Sir,” the first man insisted. “This is a very urgent matter.”

__

Paul stared at him, remembering everything that Emma had told him about what they had done to her. It filled him with a sort of silent rage. “Leave Emma alone, okay, just- _just stay away from her_.” Panic started rising in his chest

__

The first man looked down and sighed, his shoulder length auburn hair falling around his face. “That’s not why we’re here, Paul – quite the opposite, in fact.”

__

“You’re coming with us whether you believe that or not,” the second man added. The first man shot a disapproving look over his shoulder, then a sympathetic one to Paul. It did nothing to calm him.

__

“That’s true, I’m afraid, but for what it’s worth, we’re on your side.”

__

Paul desperately scanned the vacant street. There was no one he could call to for help, nowhere he could try to run to without getting caught before he could make it. He was trapped. “What do you want with me?” he repeated, fear plain in his voice.

__

The first man seemed unaffected. “We need to ask you some questions, and then to tell you what we know about your current situation.”

__

Paul gave a silent prayer that as long as Emma was with Professor Hidgens, she could be safe for a little while longer. His phone was in his pocket; if he agreed to go with them, perhaps he could send her a warning without them knowing, if he was careful. She could run, but to where he didn’t know. She was smart though, and she had lasted 2 years fending for herself with nothing. She would be okay. She had to be okay.

__

“Okay,” he whispered. The first man clapped him on the shoulder. As he did so, the side of his un-zipped jacket swung open slightly, allowing Paul a glimpse of the gun tucked into a discreet holster.

__

He was in danger.

__

The man proceeded to open the door behind the driver’s seat, gesturing for Paul to get in. He did as he was told. His heart leapt up into his throat when the sunglasses-wearing man opened the other door and climbed into the back with him.

__

He was screwed.

__

“Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind handing your phone over to my associate?” the first man asked. “I hope you understand, the topics we wish to discuss are strictly confidential.” On cue, the sunglass-wearing man held out his hand. Paul complied.

__

He was fucked.

__

*

__

Xander felt slightly guilty about how much fun he was having. The poor man had turned white, and said nothing until they pulled up outside his apartment.

__

“Y-you know where I live?”

__

It took a lot of effort for Xander to supress a laugh. “Yup.” He thought it best to leave it at that.

__

When they were inside, Paul made a break for the kitchen, running behind the island in its centre and pulling a kitchen knife out of one of the drawers. He pointed it at them with a shaking hand. Xander recognised it immediately.

__

John sighed. “We aren’t here to hurt you, Paul. My name is General John McNamara of the United States’ military, special unit P.E.I.P, we call it Peep.” Xander rolled his eyes. “Our department is tasked with handling crises of a certain nature. One such case, one we encountered earlier this week, was deemed unworthy of our unit’s resources. It was taken away from us and moved to another department, but I was, and still am convinced it poses a threat that our department is uniquely qualified to address. We decided to lead our own investigation, and now we believe we are in possession of information that only you can help us decipher.” As he spoke, Paul slowly lowered the knife. “But first, we need you to tell us everything leading up to what happened on the 28th of October, when you stabbed that machine.”

__

Paul placed the knife on the counter. “How did you…?”

__

“We’ll get to that in bit,” Xander shrugged. “First, why don’t you sit down?” The already pale man looked mere moments away from fainting. With a weak nod, he walked past them and into the living area, collapsing into the armchair like a ragdoll. Xander followed suit, sitting down on the nearby couch. All humour had drained from the situation the moment he saw him clutching that knife. The way he held it… this was a man who would never use a weapon like that unless he was terrified to within an inch of his life. “My name’s Xander,” he offered, feeling a little guilty. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

__

“It’s a long story,” Paul replied in a deadpan voice.

__

John sat down next to Xander, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m sure we can keep up.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a bunch of answers, with more yet to come. Hopefully now people are getting the swing of what I've changed and what I've kept the same, but I would like to clarify that CCRP is regular-corporate-shady, not ominous-robots-and-clones-shady, so I changed its name to reflect that, because fuck Clivesdale.  
> I had so much fun writing this one, so I hope people liked it!


	14. Yield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Xander have listened to Paul's account, and Emma attends Hidgens' Friday lecture.
> 
> **Trigger warning:** I brought up drugging again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe, I wrote most of this drunk, hope it's readable

Aside from the odd clarification, John and Xander listened to Paul’s story in silence. As he spoke, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place one by one until they were left with a semi-coherent portrait of events. There was still a lot of information missing, but they at least had a sense of what they were dealing with. It was unfortunate, however, that they just happened to be dealing with something far more sinister than they could ever have guessed.

They took a moment to gather their thoughts when the man finished talking, trying to connect what was fact to what was theory. John’s mind kept bringing up the woman from Emma’s memory. _“You’ll do nicely_.” The diagnosis, Jane’s death, the android cutting the breaks and taking Emma’s life, Fletcher’s execution. Whoever they were, whatever they were doing, they were _in_ Hatchetfield, getting up to God knows what. Biding their time perhaps, or simply keeping a low profile. Or doing the same thing they were up to all those years ago, whatever that might have been.

John did his best to construct a timeline in his head, hoping it would give him a clearer picture. First, Emma was drugged at a bar and picked up by a woman in a suit. It wasn’t clear what they did, presumably something that would help them construct the android, but they paid her and let her go. Shortly after this, she left Hatchetfield for Guatemala. Several years later, a psychologist called Damien Fletcher was diagnosed by Emma’s _sister_ (as Paul had informed them) with paranoid schizophrenia. As he lost his license, it has to be assumed that if he worked on the AI, it was done some time before this. John wasn’t sure how long, but it had to have happened at some point. Less than a month later, Jane Perkins died in a car crash, which they suspected to have been planned. At the same time, the fake Emma tried to murder the real Emma and take her place, stealing her possessions and returning to Hatchetfield. The fake Emma tried to live a normal life, meeting and eventually marrying Paul. Their wedding was crashed by Damien Fletcher, who revealed that he knew the truth about Emma (John had a sneaking suspicion that he was mis-diagnosed), which prompted her half-confession. A week after the wedding, the real Emma returned, and the fake Emma tried to kill her a second time. She killed 17 people in the Birdhouse (a total of 48, counting the bus) and set it on fire. She then pursued the couple to where they were hiding, resulting in a fight, after which Paul stabbed her, causing the motel fire. As John and Xander had carried out their investigation, Paul and Emma went on to try and fake a normal life until they could figure out what to do, in which time someone shot Damien Fletcher in the head.

It was a lot to take in. So much was missing. There was no logic behind any of it. Why build an android capable of such destruction and model it after some random, vulnerable teenager? Why did Jane Perkins have to die if her diagnosis would have discredited everything Damien Fletcher said? Unless, of course, it was purely coincidental, but somehow out of everything they were dealing with, _that_ seemed like the most unlikely. Why wait a week until after the wedding to kill Fletcher? Unless there was another motive, but if so, what?

John sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “Xander, I completely agree with you,” he mumbled into them.

“How so?”

John sat back up, allowing their tired eyes to meet. “Not a P.E.I.P level threat my _ass,_ ” he quoted dryly. John looked over at Paul, hunched over in his armchair like a willow, waif-like and sombre. A good man. A _brave_ man. All he had wanted was a normal life, and yet even in the face of adversity, he had been forced to make an unenviable decision and had put his own feelings aside to do so. Now, it seemed all he wanted was to protect what was left of the woman he cared about and rebuild his shattered life as best he could.

They would help him. He deserved it.

“I’m calling it in,” John decided. “Xander, if you could fill Mr. Matthews in on our theories, I won’t be a minute.”

“Wait a sec, who are you calling,” Paul asked, sitting up a little.

“The only person with a higher role in P.E.I.P than I, the one who might have the authority to allow the continuation of our investigation in a more official capacity – my friend and mentor, Wilbur Cross.”

*

Emma made a point of waiting in her car until the last possible second before she entered the college. The building itself was a dull cinderblock cube that resembled a prison more than an institute of education (then again, to Emma’s recollection that sounded about right). On her way in, a few of the other students had given her polite nods as they filed into the lecture hall, but thankfully no one tried to start a conversation with her before they took their seats. She busied herself with pretending to go over her notes until the lights switched off and the projector behind them whirred to life, casting a dim glow over the now-seated class.

The Professor emerged from the darkness and posed dramatically in front of the light, causing an imposing shadow to mimic his movements on the far wall, that gradually shrank as he descended the steps to approach the lectern. His manner was a little less surprising now that Emma had previous experience of him. When she actually listened to the scientific jargon he spouted, he appeared to be no more than an average Professor, just with a weird house and a flair for the theatrical. It made her feel slightly guilty about mistrusting him.

The lecture itself was interesting, to say the least. Emma had absolutely no idea what any of it meant, but she knew that she wanted to know, which was a start. On top of this, the Professor’s delivery was unlike anything she’d ever encountered. No wonder Paul had told her he was her favourite teacher, something about him was mesmerizing, in a way, as if he were an actor delivering his soliloquy before a captivated audience.

Actually, the more she saw of him, the more _familiar_ he seemed. Emma couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about him she recognised, either in his tone of voice or his expressions, or maybe in the way he held himself. It could’ve been someone she met on her travels, but then she was pretty sure she’d never come across anyone quite like Professor Hidgens.

Perhaps he was just growing on her. Useful, considering how long he was going to be in her life for.

At the conclusion of the lecture, the lights stayed off, leaving the hollow rays of the projector as the only source of light in the room. Emma waited as her classmates left, faffing with sheets of paper until she was the only student left in the room. When the coast seemed clear, she stuffed everything into her bag and slowly made her way down the steps to the front of the hall, trying her best not to trip in the low light.

It wasn’t until Emma made it to the lectern itself that she realised there was no sign of the Professor. Confused, she turned around to scan the rows of chairs, but could see nothing past the glare of the projector. Emma held her hand up to shield her eyes, but even then she couldn’t make him out.

“Uhhh… Professor Hidgens?” The hall stayed silent for a moment. Just as Emma had made up her mind to search for the light switch, a delicate voice hissed at her from somewhere in the shadows.

“I knew there was something about you, right from the start,” it crooned. Something about the malice that drenched every word sent shivers crawling up Emma’s arms. In that instant, she felt the uncontrollable urge to run, without really knowing why. Not that she could, though; her feet were fixed to the floor.

“Excuse me?” she asked the emptiness.

“You didn’t remember me.” It stated, matter-of-fact. “You never did like Hatchetfield, and you’d been gone for so long… I figured you’d simply repressed it. How wrong I was…” No matter how hard Emma strained, she couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. It was then that she realised the Professor must have kept his microphone on, allowing his voice to echo around the hall.

Taunting her.

Emma didn’t care if it was justified or not, she couldn’t stay a moment longer. She bolted for the door, seizing the handle and yanking it with as much strength as she could muster. It didn’t budge.

A sardonic chuckle reverberated off of the walls, sinking into her bones and draining the colour from her face. “You’re not getting away from us this time, Emma.” His words confirmed her worst fears.

“Open the door,” she commanded, grateful for the determined edge her voice retained.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that-“

“I said open the _fucking door,_ you freak!” Her cry was the only thing left to fill the silence, and once it died, she was left with nothing but a lifeless void to hear her panicked breath. He didn’t answer her. The conversation she had with Paul in Beanies a few hours earlier crossed her thoughts. _“I could come with you, if you want?”_ he had asked her. Even then she didn’t know whether it would’ve been better. If they had come together, she could’ve been safe, but if not, she would’ve dragged him back into the path of danger, and she’d done that enough already. She decided to count it as a blessing that she had declined; Emma had no idea what was about to happen, but she wagered it wasn’t going to be good. Better that at least one of them escaped it.

She was running out of time. Desperate, Emma made a break for the podium, hoping to have something she could hide behind, but before she could make it, the projector shut off and she was plunged into darkness. Emma stopped in her tracks, holding her breath so that she could listen. The faint flapping of fabric broke through the darkness, growing increasingly frantic as it got closer. At least now Emma knew where the sound was coming from, and she forced herself to run in the opposite direction. She only made it a couple of steps before she her hip collided with the podium, sending a spasm of pain into her side. She cried out and stumbled around it, adamant that she would escape. The flapping was now dangerously close, and she didn’t had the chance to cover much distance at all before a set of icy fingers closed themselves around a chunk of hair on the top of her head.

The hand tugged her head down at an uncomfortable angle, causing her to trip backwards until her back crashed against the Professor’s chest. She went to jam her elbow into his ribs, but the hand that held her hair had moved itself to circle her middle, squashing her against him with more force than she thought the old man would ever be able to muster. Emma’s terrified scream was cut off by something being pressed down over her mouth. She gasped for breath through her nose, causing a sickeningly sweet smell to flood her nostrils. Emma scratched and kicked and thrashed, but nothing she did would make the Professor yield.

Her arms started to feel heavy, as did her head. Throughout it all, her heart had been pounding in her chest, but now its aggressive pulse started to beat against the inside of her eardrums and push at the walls of her skull like it was trying to break through them. It wasn’t long before her legs buckled, her arms dropped to her sides, and her eyes fluttered shut, as Emma’s resolve to struggle cracked and crumbled under the pressure of the cloth that choked away all clean air from her searing lungs. The Professor’s voice snarled at her from a distance, mumbling soothing sentiments that did nothing other than send hot tears streaking down her cheeks to collect in a stream in the crease where his thumb pressed against her skin. She begged her body to resist, but it was no use.

Gradually, Emma sank into a sleep that she fought against with all her strength, until the charging waves of numbness overwhelmed her efforts and crushed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry if that wasn't enough of a trigger warning but I didn't want to spoil it, let me know if I should change it or improve the warning tags on the fic because i really don't want to upset anyone but at the same time I'm super dramatic.  
> Also I just want to say, before people have high expectations, Cross is only gonna be a minor part and not even necessarily evil, I just... well, you'll see why he's in it.  
> I've had that second part planned for a long while, and getting the rest of the events to line up for it to make sense has been a struggle, but I feel like it's starting to come together.  
> Also also... Emma, you good?


	15. Scuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a phone call, and the trio go for a drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit longer since posting, all that book learnin' has worn me out.

Paul watched John stepping out of the apartment, pulling his phone from his pocket as the door swung shut behind him. When he looked back at Xander, he saw that the man’s eyes had been fixed on his face. He seemed to be sizing Paul up, but for what he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t exactly disappointment in his eyes, but it wasn’t far from it either. To Paul, it felt as if the man was trying to figure out how someone like him ended up in a situation like this. Then again, that could’ve just been because that was what _he_ was thinking.

“So, what have you found?” Paul prompted, breaking the silence.

Xander gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, you know more than us for the most part, but there are a couple of things you could do with hearing.” It sounded like an understatement. “Do you remember the guy that crashed your wedding?”

Images of the homeless man, deranged and ranting, flashed across his mind. Paul had been so distracted by what was going on that strangely enough, the relevance of his cries had never fully registered with him. Everything he’d screamed, everything they’d immediately dismissed as crazy… it was all true. At the time he’d only connected it to the other Emma’s confession of identity theft, but he hadn’t thought to link it to what happened since. “Oh my God… he _knew,_ ” Paul gasped. “He knew everything… wait, how do _you_ know about him?”

Xander looked slightly apologetic. “We did a little reconnaissance of your office building when we were trying to learn more about you. John engaged in a conversation with one of your co-workers – Melissa, I believe – in an attempt to get any information we could about you and your wife.”

“She’s not my wife,” Paul blurted out. Xander stared at him. “Technically. Since… she wasn’t at the wedding.”

Xander gave him a look he didn’t quite understand. “Right, of course, I’m sorry – you and _Emma,_ ” he amended. “Well, given what we knew, it sounded like he knew something useful.”

“So was he a part of it?”

“We think so, yes,” Xander replied. “He was called Damien Fletcher, do you recognise the name?”

“No.”

“Our research revealed that he was a psychologist, which is why we think that, if he was involved, he must’ve played a role in the development of the AI. However, in the December of 2016 he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and lost his license. He went on to work at the plant, but he’s been homeless since it closed down.”

Paul’s eyes widened at the prospect of such a lead. “Have you spoken to him? I mean, I get that it might be difficult in his condition, but… what is it?”

Halfway through his sentence, Xander had winced. After a sharp inhale, he explained. “We tried to, but… but he was found dead this morning. We highly suspect he was murdered.” Paul could’ve choked on his shock, but he held it back. “There’s something else,” Xander added. There was a twinge to the way that he said it that filled Paul with dread.

“What?” he asked, hesitantly.

Xander rubbed the back of his neck. “We found his certificate of diagnosis… the woman who signed it was someone who worked alongside him in the practise he was employed by at the time. Her name was Jane Perkins.”

_Jane?_ “Wha- then, how does- but she-“

“But she died shortly after,” Xander finished, giving him a meaningful look. The dots connected in Paul’s head.

“You think… _she_ … was murdered too?”

Xander nodded.

He thought of everything he knew about the accident.

Jane hadn’t even been driving, Tom had. Tim was in the car with them.

If it was true, if it really was murder, they did it with a _child_ in the car. They tore a family apart. No subtlety, no mercy.

These people were dangerous. More than that, they were _ruthless._

“I think…” Paul’s mouth was too dry. “I, uh… I think we should go and pick up Emma, I don’t want to just wait for her.” Nowhere was safe for either of them, not anymore. Married or not married, he couldn’t leave her out of his sight until he was certain they were safe. It was a miracle that Xander and John had found him when they did. Paul couldn’t help but trust them. It probably wasn’t wise to, but what choice did he have? Sure, they did effectively kidnap him in broad daylight, but apart from that they seemed nice.

“I was going to suggest the same thing,” said Xander.

“Suggest what?” John asked. He stood in the doorway, looking pale.

*

The moment Cross picked up, John started talking. Ripping off the band-aid.

“Sir, I was assigned a case on Monday that was redistributed, I presume after being deemed unworthy of PEIP’s attention. Well, Xander and I were left with some evidence – which I feel I should stress was only found with the help of PEIP’s resources and otherwise would have been missed – and we decided to follow it up. I know that my actions have been unpardonable, but based on our findings, they were justified. There is something insidious at work here, and with your permission, I would like to be reassigned to the case in order to follow through with the support necessary to tackle the threat we have uncovered.”

The line stayed silent for a moment. Then, a familiar chuckle came through the phones speaker.

_“Oh, classic John, breaking the rules for the greater good. I’m surprised you didn’t include that bit, what is it again, ‘the strength of the human heart’?”_ Wilbur kept laughing, which was a good sign.

“So, is that a yes?” John asked, hopeful.

_“John,”_ Wilbur said, the laughter dying out. His tone shifted from joking to sincere. _“Let me get one thing through to you; you have a lot more authority than you think. If you wanted to keep the case, you could have asked outright and no one would’ve argued. Hang on one sec, I’ll see what I can do.”_

John took in his mentor’s words. Cross was right, he was a General. PEIP may be small, but they were strong, and that title bears equal weight regardless.

_“Uhh, John, you still there?”_ Cross’s question pulled John out of his reflection.

“I’m here, sir.”

_“Are you talking about the remains picked up from that second arson attack?”_

“That’s the one.”

_“It says here that case is still yours.”_

Silence.

“…Are you sure?”

_“Positive. Who told you it was reassigned?”_

“Uh, Schaeffer did – we stepped out for a break and when we came back, it was all gone, she said they’d taken everything.”

Another silence.

“Sir?”

_“You’re with Xander?”_

“Yes, sir.”

_“Okay, you two continue with your investigation but I need you to report back to me at regular intervals. I’ll check the CCTV footage and try to get a hold of Schaeffer, ask her what she remembers of whoever took your evidence. Send me whatever you have, if the threat’s that great then this could be a part of it. Where are you?”_

“We’re at the apartment of one of our suspects, we made contact because we believed them to be in danger.”

_“How many are there?”_

“2, civilians.”

_“And where’s the other?”_

“With a professor of theirs, they’ll be ba-“

_“Go find them – if there’s even a chance that these people have breached our security I don’t want you to let either of them out of your sight.”_

“Understood.”

The line went dead.

A breach in their security.

50 people dead.

2 suspects – now witnesses, technically. Civilian lives at stake.

And no more leads.

All John was left to do was collect Emma and wait to hear from Cross. It wasn’t enough, but he could do it.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and opened the door, in time to catch the end of Xander’s sentence.

“Suggest what?” John asked. Two sets of eyes fixed on his, and Xander’s face filled with concern.

“What did he say?”

John looked at Paul, perched literally on the edge of his seat, shaking hands balled into fists on his lap. He needed to tell Xander what he’d just learned, but he couldn’t do that in front of someone so obviously terrified. “We’ve been reassigned the case,” he said with a shrug. Crossing the room to stand in from of Paul, John held out his hand and helped him to his feet. “We’ve also been instructed to collect Emma and take both of you to a secure location, Mr. Matthews, just until we can brief some more operatives on your case. I take it Emma is currently at the community college?”

“Uh, yeah, but she should be finishing up,” Paul stammered.

“Well then,” John said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “Let’s go get her.”

*

No matter how hard Paul tried, he couldn’t get his leg to stay still. The bouncing made the fabric of his trouser leg brush against the edge of the seat, which for the first minute of the journey, was the only noise in the car. This of course made it seem obscenely loud, until the General mercifully switched on the radio.

To think, that he had spent most of that first day completely oblivious. He had assumed Emma was playing some kind of elaborate practical joke on him, or setting up some ‘sexy surprise’. Paul cringed inwardly at the memory of the real Emma’s confused and disgusted face as he had said that. What kind of a pervert must he have looked like? The penny only dropped when he walked back into the bar, and saw that… _thing_ for the first time as what it really was. The monster he had married, strangling some innocent stranger.

He had loved her. She was perfect. She had been everything he didn’t know he missed, but everything she was had been stolen from someone else. She was just a copy, a lie.

But.

There _were_ differences, tiny inconsequential inconsistencies. Like the drinking, for example; whenever they had gone out drinking, Emma either offered to drive or drank a similar amount to himself. No… the _exact same_ amount. Mirroring him, perhaps, not wanting to throw him off. The real Emma, on the other hand, knew how to handle it, and she handled it well. At the time it had been a turn on, but it had since become a revelation. It was at least a little controversial in terms of dating. Everything about their personalities was a match, but anything that might have been off-putting for some people seemed to have been altered. As for the cannabis… she only brought up pot after he admitted to trying it in college (he had had the pleasure of knowing Ted for many years). The fake Emma must have not wanted to take risks with their relationship, but why? Was it capable of loving him? Or did it just want the security of a bland partner?

The thought that their love was never real was the hardest thing for Paul to believe. At the very least, he knew how _he_ felt. Every kiss, every smile, every day he had woken up next to her had been a blessing. Maybe he would never know the real Emma Perkins. After all, how could she love him after everything. He knew her, or at least he thought he did; she wouldn’t love him back purely because she was supposed to, because the fake Emma picked him therefore _‘in some way, she would’ve picked him.’_ It wouldn’t be enough.

They were getting close to the college. Paul had no idea where they would go from there, but at least he knew he would have a little more time with the woman he loved before she left him. For _Clivesdale,_ of all places. He’d prefer she go anywhere else on the planet than _Clivesdale._

At long last, the car pulled into the space beside Emma’s car. The whole lot was vacant, except for those two vehicles. Paul looked at the time on the dashboard – 18:25, almost a half an hour after the lecture was supposed to have ended. It made sense, given that the Professor had asked her to stay behind, but he would at least expected his car to still be there. Maybe she was studying, going over everything the professor had told her ready to begin her cource.

Paul unbuckled his belt and got out, pulling his jacket closer as a chilling autumn wind circled them. They walked in silence as Paul led the agents inside. He only vaguely knew where he was going from the handful of times he had picked her up from lectures when her car refused to start. Maybe that was why it was still out there, but then surely she would’ve thought to call him.

When they got to the right room, the doors to the lecture hall wouldn’t budge. The dread that Paul hadn’t been able or willing to acknowledge until that point made itself known and settled like glass at the pit of his stomach. He tried them again, but to no avail. He looked helplessly at the men behind him, who watched him with vague dismay.

“Let’s try the fire exit,” Xander offered.

John nodded in agreement. “You go ahead, I’ll alert Cross.” The General gave Paul a firm pat on the shoulder as Xander nudged his elbow. He hadn’t realised that his feet were fixed to the ground. He unstuck them, trying his best not to trip as he half-jogged ahead of Xander back the way they came. The cold air slapped him in the face as he left the building, but he hardly felt it; his mind was fixed on the fire escape.

They turned the corner of the building to see the door left swinging open, banging against the metal railing with each gust. Paul bolted inside, only to stop in his tracks upon taking in the pitch black lecture hall. He fumbled along the wall for a light switch, groping and smacking until his hand finally struck against plastic. He switched it on, and the hall flooded with light.

There was no sign of her, no sign of anyone, in fact.

Something had happened. Already.

They hadn’t been fast enough.

“Paul, what shoes did Emma wear?” Xander asked him as he stumbled over to try and let the General in. Yet again, the door didn’t budge; someone had locked it. She had been trapped.

The obscurity of Xander’s question hardly registered. “Uh, her work shoes, so black plimsoles, I guess,” he replied. Oddly enough, his voice sounded calm. Eerily so, as if he was incapable of the fear he knew he felt in that moment. Its screams were echoing across his mind, and yet no hysteria escaped him. If anything, his skin, his ears, his voice, it had all been glossed over with numbness. Paul turned slowly to see how Xander looked, if he was concerned or frightened or even frustrated.

As it turns out, Xander was none of these things. Instead, Paul found him crouching down beside the lectern, staring at the floor. He walked over to him robotically to find out what had caught his eye.

“It happened here,” Xander stated, looking up at Paul. He conveyed a mixture of graveness and apology that was altogether ominous. Paul bent down to inspect what he was pointing to. At first, he couldn’t make sense of the thin black lines smeared over the floor, until Xander rubbed one with his finger and the scuff marks peeled away.

Where _it_ happened. The struggle.

There could be no denying it now.

“Are you okay, Paul?” a voice asked.

Paul was not okay. In fact, Paul was finding it hard to breathe. He needed air, more than he’d ever needed it before in his life. For once he gasped for the icy November evening outside, and he staggered towards the door to meet it. It was dizzying when it met his lungs, causing his head to swim.

It was only a couple of seconds before both men joined him, with the General still clutching his phone. He grimaced at Paul before turning to Xander, who gave a barely noticeable shake of the head. Paul knew what he was telling his partner. He was saying _‘gone’._

Emma was gone.

Emma was alone, and frightened, and gone. She had struggled, something had made her struggle. She could be in pain.

She could be dead.

“What did your boss say?” Paul choked out, needing to find literally anything to cling to. The General looked him up and down, concern furrowing his brow, before responding.

“He’s asked for us to regroup – he has some information that could be important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian Holden voice* "Someone tell him where his wife is, someone tell him where is wife is."  
> Yeah, Paul is concerned™. Whoopsie  
> Also that's the jist of Cross, I'm sort of going for the angle of if the black and white isn't in this fic, then there was never a portal for him to step through, so he never went crazy and just kept at the military career. And hoo boy they just haven't even considered Schaeffer as disloyal, have they?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Xander and Paul hear a voice from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, but the stress at the moment is getting ridiculous. I hope the puzzle's starting to knit together, but there are a couple of pieces I'm holding back.

It had taken a lot of persuasion to let Paul into the briefing, but John was not about to leave him in the dark. It felt strange to pull rank; he never liked to use his position to his advantage, but then he reasoned that it wasn’t really for _his_ sake. Paul deserved to know what was going on, more so than anyone in PEIP. To them it was just another mission, but to him it was everything. Besides, with a missing person, it could only be a short meeting; they had to get back out there and find her.

John had taken his seat at the end of the table, next to Wilbur’s vacant chair at the head. Across from him sat Xander, who was beside an agitated Paul. Both of them were flicking through various sheets of paper that the operatives had left scattered over the table from their initial briefing. John would have joined in, but there was something that no one had mentioned or suggested that was weighing on his mind.

Surely the Professor would have been the last to leave, not Emma. Someone had to have locked the door, and they were bound to have a set of keys. They knew nothing about whoever taught Emma, and they had no reason to suspect them as a part of the case except for the logistics of her apparent abduction. Either way, they would’ve been the last person to see her regardless of whether or not they were involved, so it was a line of inquiry that was worth pursuing, especially now that their last lead was spent; they didn’t exactly have the time to scour through security footage anymore, and it wasn’t a definite that whatever Cross wanted to show them would give them another.

“Mr. Matthews,” John began. He waited until Paul looked at him.

“Please, call me Paul,” he replied, setting down the paper in his hand.

“As you wish. Paul, could you tell me more about Emma’s Professor? You said you went to him the other day?”

“Uh, yeah, Professor Hidgens. We figured he’d be crazy enough to take it seriously.”

John frowned. “How so?”

“Well, he’s kind of a recluse. Emma said he got struck by lightning when he was in his 20’s, and that apparently he hasn’t been the same since. He’s a good guy though, and Emma really likes him- well, _did_ like him. I mean, he officiated our wedding, so…”

"Would I be correct in assuming that the real Emma _doesn’t_ like him, then?” John asked, as tentatively as he could. Paul considered it for a moment.

“I mean I _guess_ … it’s not like she hates him or anything, it’s just… he’s a lot to take in, especially if you’re not used to him. I didn’t know her when she first started going to his classes, but I can only assume it took her a while to warm to him then as well.” Paul went to pick up his sheet, only to pause with his hand suspended above it. He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

John dodged the question. “Just one more thing – what is it he’s a professor of?”

“Biology – Emma’s studying botany, but I think he specialises in cell biology, or something like that?” Paul kept his eyes on John as his answer was processed. Something was clicking into place, but he couldn’t get ahead of himself. “Why do you ask?” Paul repeated. If John’s questions had made him nervous, he hid it well; all he could detect in Paul’s face was solemn curiosity, not a hint of fear in sight.

John sighed and looked to Xander, who, like Paul, had given up his sheets in favour of watching their conversation unfold. The look he gave him was different to Paul’s, making it clear that they were thinking along the same wavelength. “Paul… it seems unlikely that whatever happened to Emma took place after the professor left. Someone had to lock the door, and fire exits don’t open from the outside.”

“Are you suggesting…!” Paul began. Evidently the fear hadn’t been particularly far beneath the surface, as it sprang forward easily enough.

“I’m not suggesting anything, not yet,” John placated. “For now, all we need to think about is that he is likely to be the last person we know to have seen her.” That seemed to appease Paul, if only a little. “If Wilb- uh, Director Cross’s information doesn’t give us any new leads, then I think our next steps should be to approach him and ask if he’s seen anything suspicious.”

Paul winced. “He won’t talk to you, he’s, uh… kinda sceptic of authority.”

“I figured as much. Which is why I was hoping you would be so kind as to accompany us – as the voice of reason?” John was becoming certain that the professor knew something. If Paul was the one to approach him, maybe they could draw him out. “Where does he live?”

“Oh, his estate’s in the Witchwood forest, if you follow the road up to Watcher World, there’s a trail that leads off to the side not that far out that takes you right to his front gate.”

“Hold up, his _estate_?” Xander interjected with disbelief. Paul nodded.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly subtle. I’ve only ever seen the house though, so I don’t really know how big it is.”

“And what’s the house like?” John asked.

“Big, old, and… well, that’s about it, actually. It’s more of a manor than a house, kinda gothic, almost castle-like. Like I said, it isn’t subtle, so you’ll know it when you see it.”

“I’d be a recluse too if I could live in a place like that,” one of the operatives – Branson – piped up from the other end of the table. John hadn’t even realised they were listening in.

He brought the conversation back on topic. “But what about the inside? Anything you can tell us?”

Paul shrugged. “It’s a total labyrinth, for one thing. A lot of dust, too, and boxes. Other than that it looks like pretty much what you’d expect from the outside. I think I even saw a suit of armour in there once.”

A gothic manor in the middle of the woods. A dusty labyrinth inside a gothic manor in the middle of the woods. A crazy scientist living in a dusty labyrinth inside a gothic manor in the middle of the woods.

That seemed like a pretty good place to find a missing person.

In fact, given all the colossal red flags, he was surprised that Paul genuinely didn’t suspect anything.

John heard a click behind him. “Alrighty then,” Wilbur announced as he entered, pushing open the door with his shoulder and dropping a box on the table with a thud. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

*

_November 27th, 2017._

_Dr. Jane Perkins, MD._

_Patient name: Dr. Damien Fletcher, PHD._

_Today’s consult was held following a string of concerning comments Dr. Fletcher made within the practise. The record should state that this consult was conducted without his knowledge, for the sake of protecting what could be a vulnerable man._

_Three days ago, Dr. Damien asked me some questions about my last name. He said that he thought my name was Jane Houston, but had recently read a document that told him otherwise. I replied that it was, but only as a term of familiarity, and that professionally, as well as on my certification, I retain my maiden name ‘Perkins’ for the sake of consistency with the patients I have maintained from before getting married. Dr. Fletcher appeared to be disturbed by this revelation, growing visibly pale and shaking. When asked if he was okay, Dr. Fletcher grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a vacant supply closet. There, he grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered that we were in grave danger, as was my sister. Given that I have never mentioned having a sister to Dr. Fletcher, I assumed he had heard of her through the usual small-town gossip, but I remain certain that he has never actually met her._

_Due to the impossible nature of Dr. Fletcher’s claims, and the fact that there has never been anything in his behaviour to imply an inclination towards conspiracy, I grew concerned that my colleague was experiencing delusions of persecution. I appeased his apparent anxiety by promising to speak with him at a later date in a more ‘secure location’, vocabulary that he seemed to appreciate._

_Today, I met with Dr. Fletcher at the bandstand in Oakleigh park. Unfortunately, my recorder was unable to pick up what he said, so I shall have to paraphrase. He told me that he used to ‘work for the government’, creating ‘an AI capable of replicating the exact cognitions of another human being, simulating everything from conscious thought to sensory processing’. He said that he was never allowed to meet the participant who’s mind he would be replicating, but that he was given everything he needed by one of the scientists also assigned to the case. He went on to describe a little about their process, and how he was told very little about how the commissioned technology would be used, other than in the completion of an ‘SP unit’, information Dr. Fletcher gained from a glimpse of a document he believes he wasn’t supposed to see. ___

_At this point, I asked Dr. Fletcher how this concerned me or my sister. He said that there was another piece of information he had happened upon by chance – the participant’s name, told to him by the AI itself when he was developing it. He worked alongside one other, who was responsible for encoding factual information and memories into the AI, whilst Dr. Fletcher was ‘responsible for behaviour and cognitive reflexes’. During the late stages of development 9 years ago, he had engaged it in conversation, at which point it introduced itself as Emma Perkins._

_I asked Dr. Fletcher why this meant we were in danger. He replied that an associate of his, a biologist with whom he has maintained a correspondence, kept him updated on the efficacy of his work, and had told him that the SP unit was to be sent to Guatemala on a ‘mission’, where he had recently learned my sister is back-packing. Dr. Fletcher said that if the two were to encounter each other, it would most likely result in my sister’s ‘termination’. Then, he told me that if they wished to recreate his work using a new subject, he would refuse, as he had grown to suspect that his work was being used ‘not in the name of creation, but of destruction’, as he had previously been unaware of the possibility of ‘missions’. He then added that if Emma was killed and he refused, they would most likely place him under covert observation (if they didn’t kill him first – his words, not mine), at which point they would discover that we (Dr. Fletcher and I) are colleagues, and would assume that Dr. Fletcher had told me of their project and would be forced to kill me as a result, which is why he filled me in, believing that I might as well possess the knowledge they would convince themselves I had, hoping that the upper hand might help save us. ___

_I thanked him for the warning, promised that I would be on the lookout, and drove him home._

_When I first grew concerned that Dr. Fletcher was experiencing delusions, I never could have imagined just how severe they were. The detail that he went in to describing them indicates that he may also be suffering from hallucinations, as delusions are usually vaguer, rarely involving such a detailed description of events and interactions. According to the DSM-5, the delusions of persecution and grandeur are enough to constitute a diagnosis of schizophrenia, but I will conduct a further analysis to determine whether or not he has been hallucinating all the same. As of yet I have been unable to detect any negative symptoms, meaning paranoid schizophrenia would be the best description of his condition (I’ve been referring to the ICD-10 for a wider understanding of the disorder, as I have never encountered a case of it before in my career. It recognises 3 variations: paranoid, hebephrenic and catatonic; the latter two are not concerned in this case). I shall continue to observe Dr. Fletcher both in and outside of work for any signs of avolition, but given that the only absent positive symptom is speech disorganisation, I believe there is enough evidence to warrant a full psychiatric evaluation._

_End of report._

*

The tape went silent. No one said anything as Wilbur took it out of the player and swapped it for another.

Xander tried to process what he had heard, but one chunk of information seemed more pressing than the rest.

_Biologist._

He had seen the looks John had given him, he knew what he thought, what they _both_ thought.

Xander set his suspicion to the side as Wilbur played the second tape.

*

_December 8th - patient log._

_Following Dr. Fletcher’s diagnosis (see tape F,D-3), I received very little news about him. I knew his license was suspended, and that he had been referred a social worker and a therapist. In my report I recommended he be placed on a prescription of risperidone, 6mg as an initial dosage, but heard nothing to suggest that my recommendation had been listened to._

_Today was the first time I heard anything. I received a call from St. Damien’s psychiatric wing, claiming that a patient had been requesting me. They refused to tell me who they were over the phone, merely that they had suffered some form of episode, and that they would also be requiring my professional psychiatric input._

_I had a feeling it was Dr. Fletcher before I arrived, but the sight of him was still unexpected. He had sustained several injuries, possibly self-inflicted, during his episode, and was unconscious by the time I arrived. Some of the smaller, undressed cuts could have been from the window he smashed before collapsing, at which point an ambulance had been called. There was a woman with him who introduced herself as June when I entered. She asked me about his condition, and what might have triggered the episode. After getting her to show me her ID – a social worker, as it turns out – I informed her of his diagnosis. She said she was already aware, that she had been assigned to him, but she wondered if I knew specifically what might have caused what she understood to be an uncharacteristic outburst. I said that I didn’t know, and would have to ask him when he came to._

_It was five or so minutes before Dr. Fletcher awoke. He remained calm, if a little agitated, but said nothing. I asked June to leave, realising that he probably wanted to discuss something ‘top secret’. She begrudgingly obliged. I understood the hesitation; call us callous, but in our field of work, a tiny town like Hatchetfield doesn’t offer the most varied of cases to work with. A case like my colleague’s, distressing and tragic as it may be, is also a source of great morbid fascination._

_Alone, he was able to speak. Again, I was surprised at how organised his thoughts were – no stuttering, no raised voice, not a trace of speech poverty whatsoever. One might think he had simply stayed up a little too late the night before, not come down from what appeared to be stress-induced psychosis._

_We spoke a little of nothing, what time it was, the weather, and so forth. He made a joke about the hospital being named after him. Then I asked what happened._

_His reply?_ “Don’t trust her.”

_Immediately, I knew he meant June. I asked why, to which he responded that she was the one that recruited him. I told him that I would do as he said, not wanting to distress him any further in his vulnerable state. He then asked me to pass him his jacket, which I did. He told me that something must have gone wrong in Guatemala, but that he didn’t know what. He urged me not to reach out to my sister in case ‘they’ had her phone, then took out his keys from his pocket and pressed them into my hands. He told me to go to his house, by myself, and find the notes he had gathered, everything he had on his work and ‘the devil-woman in the other room’. Again, I said that I would, with full intent this time, not just to put him at ease; they likely contain a good insight into his delusions. If I manage to retrieve them, perhaps I can help June in becoming familiar with the issues Dr. Fletcher…_ Damien _is facing, seeing as he won’t talk to her directly._

_End of log._

*

Xander thought he might vomit.

She had said _June._

He prayed, he literally _prayed_ that it was a coincidence.

Everyone was so wrapped up in their own panicked thoughts that the silence in the room was barely noticeable until it was broken, causing the noise to splinter through the air like glass.

Paul was the first to speak. “Jane died on the 9th.”

The silence resumed for another few seconds.

“What was on the CCTV?” John asked Cross, sedate fury in his voice.

“It was wiped,” was the monotonous reply.

“It can’t be her,” Xander forced himself to whisper. All those missions, the camaraderie, the respect, the _trust._

“It can.” He looked up at John, who’s hands were clenched fast together to the point of shaking.

“Can be who?” Paul asked wearily. 

They said nothing. Cross started to pack up the tape player. “Agents, we have a lead. I’ve tried contacting her and she hasn’t responded, and I can’t get a trace on any of her equipment, which means she likely doesn’t have anything on her that belongs to us. McNamara, I need you focused – what’s your next move?”

John cleared his throat. “Make contact with Emma’s professor, see what he knows.”

“Good. Three people. The Professor first, but be cautious about it. Branson, Jahku, Turner, you follow their lead, and keep Mr. Matthews here out of harm. Both suspects are to be kept alive, but if you have to pick between either of the suspects or Ms. Perkins, choose Ms. Perkins. Protect and serve, people.”

“What’ll happen to her?” Xander asked. He knew the rules, but he never thought he’d live to see them enacted.

Wilbur Cross heaved a heavy, drained sigh. “If it is her… June Schaeffer will have a lot to answer for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the psychology stuff is at least semi-accurate or I'm gonna fail my exams. Let me know if there are any issues with clarity, it was very stop-start writing this. Hopefully I can take time over the weekend to sit and write for more than 10 minutes, but I've got quite a bit of coursework to do.  
> Also I named Schaeffer June because of On The Outside Looking In by ShhhImwriting, which I've already mentioned but you should still totally check it out because there's a whole part 2 in progress.


	17. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Encoding Specificity Principle: Tulving (1983) - cues help the process of remembering if the same cues are present at both encoding and retrieval of memories. The closer the retrieval cue to the original cue, the better it works. Some cues present during encoding have no meaningful link to the encoded memory, such as context-dependant forgetting (environmental cue - weather, location, etc. - needed) or state-dependant forgetting (internal/state-of-mind cue - emotion, inebriation, etc. - needed)
> 
> Emma remembers something after being drugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I'm stretching the ESP thing but it's technically revision for me so I put it anyway.  
> This is an entirely happy chapter in which nothing bad happens and everything is safe and nice and good. Yes. dEfiNiTElY nOt sARcaSm.  
> I'm just gonna go ahead and put **TRIGGER WARNING** even though I'm not exactly sure what the triggers are, but they're in there. I think.

_“I swear to God, I’m fucking done with this place.”_

_“…What do you mean by that, Emma?”_

_“I mean the first chance I get, I’m outta here. Packing up, moving on, going literally anywhere else… what the fuck is your problem, you gonna try and talk me out of it? What’s that look for?”_

_“Oh, uh… it’s nothing, Emma. Just wish I could help you.”_

_“Pfft, fat chance – haven’t you heard? Apparently I’m a lost-fucking-cause.”_

_“Oh, I don’t know; I daresay you’ll find your place in this world. In fact, it may be sooner than you think.”_

*

_Even the water was shit. Emma didn’t quite know how tap-water could taste shit, but somehow, The Birdhouse managed it. It was impressive, really. Maybe it was just her; that seemed to be a recurring theme in her life at that point._

_Another row. No Jane meant no back-up, no peace-keeper, no one to warn her away from saying too much too truthfully. Of course Miss Perfect was just living it up at college as Emma’s life fell to shit._

_Perhaps the Perkins sisters were just destined to be two sides of a coin. Connected, yet irreparably alternate._

_However, from Emma’s perspective, that coin appeared to be sitting at the base of a sewer, having been tossed to the ground to roll over a filthy drain and fall between the grates. The shit had hit the fan so hard this time, it spattered the metaphysical ceiling._

_It wasn’t the first time she’d been kicked out. That honourable status was bestowed upon the occasion she had first smoked weed in the back of Goldstein’s Prius. It actually ended up being a half-decent evening. She hadn’t a clue of where to go in such a situation, so she just wandered the streets of downtown Hatchetfield until she found herself in the middle of the Witchwood forest. As much as the location screamed ‘lonesome teenager gets stabbed to death by a masked stranger and buried in a shallow grave’, it had been a surprisingly pleasant walk. Just her, the trees and the occasional nighthawk, right up until the timid rays of dawn first cracked through the army of firs surrounding her._

_This time, though. This time was different._

_Emma needed both hands to count out the number of times she’d been kicked out. They all felt pretty similar, falling into a kind of routine of yelling, doors slammed, silence, wandering and eventually creeping in through the front door the next morning without another word. That was why she knew this was different. It was going to take a lot longer for the storm to blow over. If she tried returning prematurely, things would only get a whole lot worse. Whether or not that was even possible, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t exactly eager to find out._

_It just had to be January, didn’t it? On what felt like the coldest night of the year, and the only warm place available to her was set to close in – she checked the dust-smeared clock above the bar – another 3 hours. Then she would have to move on and find somewhere knew, but where else was there?_

_Nowhere._

_She was alone._

_Which was fine, she didn’t care, but what pissed Emma off the most was that she was alone AND stuck. In_ mother-fucking Hatchetfield.

_All she needed was money. Enough to get her off the island, then she could make it up from there. If she was completely honest with herself (a rare occurrence), that was a terrifying thought, but absolutely anything else was bound to be better than staying put._

_She stared into her glass as a looming figure pulled itself up onto the barstool beside her. This was not the sort of place a man like Henry Hidgens would ever belong, and as a result, the image of him in his trademark turtleneck and blazer, sitting with perfect poise and dignity in a scummy bar was almost comical. Almost, because Emma wasn’t really looking; avoiding eye-contact wasn’t likely to prevent the oncoming lecture she could sense, but it made the painful anticipation a little easier to bear._

_As did getting in the first word. “If you’re here to try and convince me to stay or something, save your breath. I’ve made up my fuckin’ mind.”_

_“Actually, no, Emma,” her biology teacher stated, “I’m not. I’m here to buy you a drink.” She couldn’t suppress an incredulous chuckle. “Not an alcoholic one, of course, but a drink all the same.”_

_All the other teachers at Hatchetfield High blended into a single blur of authoritarian disappointment. Whether it was his disturbed genius vibe, his passionate delivery in class or the fact that he actually seemed to give a shit about whether Emma lived or died, something about him stood out from the rest. It was partly the reason why she had opened up to him that morning, having sensed that her parents were going to blow a fuse over something the minute she got home (at this point it was hard to tell exactly what it was they had a problem with, as they seemed to have compiled a comprehensive list of her various flaws they reeled off whenever they found an excuse)._

_Before she knew it, Emma was sitting in a booth at the corner of a bar, watching a couple of leather-clad bikers laugh over stale beer by the pool table as Mr. Hidgens sauntered over, carrying a can of coke in one hand and a whiskey on the rocks in the other. He slid it over to her across the sticky table, and she picked it up, muttering a thank-you._

_He swilled his drink around the tumbler, taking a delicate sniff before lifting it to his lips. Again, an almost comical image to watch her eccentric teacher tasting a drink with the precision of a connoisseur in a beat-up, grimy, spit-and-sawdust joint like The Birdhouse. She took a sip of her own drink. It wasn’t great – in fact, it was kinda gross – which she pinned down to it being a regular coke when she normally chose diet. Still, it was better than the shitty water, so she kept drinking._

_“Where will you go?” Hidgens asked, absently toying with his glass. Emma stared at it as he did, watching the warm brown liquid sloshing about, making the ice cubes clinking against the side. There was something hypnotic about the motion. She took another sip._

_“Anywhere. As far as I can get. I just need money first, that’s all. I’ve got a friend in Clivesdale who might put me up for a while whilst I figure something out.”_

_“Anywhere you particularly want to see in the world?”_

_“I don’t know…” Emma had never been anywhere. The thought of a whole world being accessible to her choosing was perplexing, and a little overwhelming. Almost dizzying. Another sip. “Europe, maybe? Somewhere they speak English… then, I don’t know, South America? Give myself some time to perfect my Spanish first. I’ve got enough in me for a short visit but I wouldn’t last for much longer.”_

_“Seems like a long way. How much are you hoping to save to make it possible?”_

_The questions were starting to give her a headache. There was something intensely unpleasant about having to think about her future. Now that Mr. Hidgens was trying to make sense of her non-existent plans, her mind started to fog over. “I don’t know… I guess $500 would be enough to get me out of the country, but I’ll probably try to earn more than that just in case… all the cheap flights’ll probably be months down the line anyway, so I’ve got time.” Not that it felt like she did. All she had in her was a desperate need to run. Or maybe vomit._

_Had the bar always been so stuffy?_

_“Well, Emma,” Mr. Hidgens said, finishing off the last of his whiskey. “I’ve got to make a call, so I’ll leave you to your evening. Make sure you finish your drink, you look like you could use the glucose.” She made a point of taking a large swig, feeling the room spin a little as she tipped back her head. When she looked back at her teacher, he had an odd sort of smile on his face. She didn’t know what it meant, but she returned it anyway._

_“Thanks, sir,” Emma mumbled, not knowing why her tongue seemed resistant to co-operating._

_“Adieu, dear Emma,” he said with a wave. “And I’ll see you soon.”_

*

_She needed air._

_She tried to recall how much alcohol she’d had, but nothing came to mind. With how parched her throat felt, she would’ve thought she hadn’t drunk at all if it wasn’t for how disorientated she felt. It must have been a lot, then._

_The winter wind was a slap in the face._

_She slumped against the wall of the alley, not knowing how she got there._

_She couldn’t feel the cold, but she couldn’t stop herself from shivering._

_“Emma Perkins?” a voice asked._

_Whose asking? ___

_Wait._

_Did she say that out loud?_

_“Whoosasfkin?” she slurred._

_“My name is June – I’m here to help you.”_

_Something tilted Emma’s chin to the side._

_“Oh yes, you’ll do nicely."_

*

There was a vile taste in her mouth and a sickening throb in her skull.

Light was coming from somewhere in the room, and it pierced through her shut eyelids and burned her vision.

Everything hurt.

Or rather, everything felt off. As if every limb in her body had been ripped to pieces then stitched back together.

Either way, it was unpleasant.

She tried to roll her head to the side, but it was difficult to find the necessary muscles. When she did find them, they wouldn’t budge. Around the pain, there was a slight pressure against her temple. Something was holding her head in place.

Instead, her attention moved to her arms. She could just about find her fingertips. She gave an experimental flex, feeling her skin drag along a smooth, ice-cold surface. Both of her hands were working, but the rest of her arms weren’t. Another flex, stronger this time. The skin of her wrists was held in place by something, something clasped closely around them.

Against the searing light, Emma forced one of her eyes to open.

She knew where she was immediately, once her vision adjusted, even from the odd angle from which she could see her surroundings. Glancing down at herself, Emma realised that she was tied to a sort of table, only it had been set at a diagonal slant. It made her feel not unlike Frankenstein’s monster. Her wrists, ankles, legs, chest and head were bound to it, strapped down like some kind of experiment.

Her eyes flicked to the door.

She pictured Paul.

The way he leant against the doorframe, watching with bemusement as the Professor shoved a thermometer in her mouth.

The Professor.

She _knew_ they couldn’t trust him.

She couldn’t get angry, she couldn’t get upset; she had to stay focused. She wriggled slightly, trying to figure out the range of movement she was allowed. As it turns out, it was very little. There was nothing within reach. The binds around her wrists were too tight for her to pull herself free. No way of grabbing something, cutting her ties was impossible.

She was stuck.

Completely and entirely trapped.

Something settled in the pit of her chest, which she tossed aside. She couldn’t be afraid, she couldn’t afford to be afraid.

Emma closed her eyes, resting her head backwards rather than pressing it against the strap across her forehead. Again, she pulled Paul’s face back into her thoughts.

His smile.

His embrace.

His smell.

His laugh.

Where was he now?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t with her. Emma didn’t know whether to feel grateful or even more terrified.

She vaguely recalled thinking something similar in the lecture hall. It would have been nice (or, at least, reassuring) to have someone familiar nearby, to feel some catharsis knowing that her fears were shared; another voice, a face she could trust… but _his_ face? Inexplicably, she couldn’t bring herself to imagine him in the same situation she was in. Tied up across from her, slowly coming to. It twisted her already unsettled stomach.

Emma was glad he was safe.

She _hoped _he was safe.__

Paul, the stranger that he was, was all she had left.

The door burst open. She kept her face expressionless and her eyes closed, hoping whoever had entered would assume she was still unconscious. Maybe she could put off whatever was coming for a little while. Maybe she would be allowed this small, insignificant fragment of control. Maybe she could-

Something jabbed Emma’s arm, sending an intense pain flashing down to her fingertips and up her neck, causing her muscles to spasm and her eyes to burst open as she cried out in pain. Professor Hidgens stood in front of her, holding a small black pen.

“Awake at last,” he stated with a grin. It was difficult to hear him over the pulse in her ears, matched perfectly with the throbbing in her head. She pushed her head back again and closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath through her nose in an attempt to quell the building nausea in her throat. Another blinding flash of pain hit her, this time on her collar-bone. She twisted her neck towards it, contorting against her restraints as her whole left side flared in a sudden agony, causing her hands to ball into fists without her permission. She forced her eyes back open to glare at Hidgens, only to be faced with the pen, pointed directly between her eyes. She cringed away from it as much as was physically possible.

He stayed there, poised for a few more seconds, before withdrawing to the other side of the lab, back to the paper-strewn table he had sifted through the other day. “Forgive me, I had to make sure you were really with us. Plus, I needed to conduct a brief reflex test, but there’s only so much I can do with you… indisposed… as you are.”

_Indisposed?_ “You mean tied up like a fuckin’…?” Emma couldn’t think of anything, so she changed tac. “What the FUCK!?” she screeched, thrashing against her ties as much as they allowed her.

“Well, I thought ‘two birds, one stone’, as far as my little,” he waved the pen in the air, “contraption goes. Do you like it? I found in a joke shop, of all places. Of course, I may have made a few changes, a few enhancements here and there...”

“NO I DON’T FUCKING LIKE IT!”

He snapped the pen up at her, pointing it back at her face from across the room. “Now, dear, I don’t want to have to shut you up, but I will if you don’t cut that out, so don’t test me, bitch.” Hearing such an eloquent man swear took Emma by surprise, causing her to gape at him for a couple of seconds before he continued. “Much better. It would be a terrible shame. See, in spite of everything, I was hoping this could be a relatively dignified experience for you-“

“Dignified?” Emma repeated, incredulous. “ _Dignified?_ Uh, care to tell me exactly which part of this is supposed to be _dignified?”_

“Well for one thing, missy,” he huffed, “I woke you up.” Emma stared at him. He rolled his eyes. “That way, you actually get to know what’s happening. We’re not just treating you like some piece of meat, or a tool. No, instead we’re actually acknowledging that you’re a conscious individual who deserves to know the truth… before you die.”

Time stopped.

“Is that not better?” Hidgens asked. His eyes seemed honest; a genuine question.

“No,” Emma replied, barely hearing herself. “No, that’s not better.”

The Professor shrugged, pulling something out of his pocket. “Fair enough, if that’s your preference...”

Emma’s eyes widened at the syringe in his hand. The panic she’d been pushing away for so long came crashing into her chest. “No no no no, please don’t,” she begged, “you’re not putting back to sleep, don’t put me back to sleep, please!” The Professor froze in front of her. She breathed a sigh of relief as he slid the syringe back into his pocket, out of sight. “Look, Professor, we can work this out-“

“Oh, I’m afraid not, Emma,” the Professor chuckled. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple.”

“Why do you want to kill me?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended.

He seemed mildly offended by her question. “Kill you? Oh no, Emma, I don’t want to _kill_ you. I want to _transform_ you.” It must have been plain on her face that she didn’t understand. “In truth, I had another motive for waking you up. We have a little time, and I’ve prepared something for the occasion- unfortunately, I couldn’t wheel the piano down here, so instead I’ve opted for more of a dramatic monologue.” He straightened up, placing his hands on his hips. “My dear Emma… would you like to know why you’re here?”

“… Sure?” He beamed at her.

“Perfect! ALEXA! Turn off the lights…”

The room was plunged into total darkness. Panic seized her chest a second time, until a single bulb hanging in the centre of the room between the strips of LED sprung to life, casting a warm spotlight on Hidgens, who was standing beneath it. “And thus, I take centre-stage,” Emma thought she heard him whisper. Professor Hidgens cleared his throat, straightened his lapel and smiled at her, a childish yet devilish smirk. “Allow me to take you back, Emma, to a night not unlike this one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was _going_ to stop the chapter at "...before you die." but I couldn't help myself from writing a teensy bit more.  
> So yeah, Emma could be doing better.  
> And to clarify, Hidgens was a high school teacher before being a lecturer in this fic, and that's how he first met Emma


	18. Caught in the lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul, John and Xander pursue their first lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I've been trying to do my portfolios for uni and let me tell ya, it aint fun.  
> This one's in 6 chunks that all happen pretty close to one another time-wise, and it pretty much picks up exactly where the last chapter ended. Hope you enjoy!  
> (and yes, the chapter title is a reference to the Little White Lie theme tune)

Professor Hidgens cleared his throat, basking in the splendour of the spotlight. He locked eyes with his student, warm brown eyes shooting ice-cold daggers at him from where he’d tied her. He gained an odd sort of satisfaction from the fury plastered over Emma’s face; in any other circumstance it would have made him extremely uncomfortable, but as it was the woman was completely powerless against him. Her anger did nothing but fuel his bravado.

“Many years ago, I-“

_Ring ring!_

The shrill chime of the doorbell echoed through the manor. The Professor and Emma stared at one another. After a beat, Emma started violently thrashing with what little room for movement her constraints had left her with, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“HEY! I’M IN HERE! HELP ME, GET ME OUT OF HERE, PLEASE, SOMEONE!” she cried, writhing and squirming like a worm in the beak of a raven.

“God fucking damn it,” Hidgens muttered. He snatched a roll of duct tape off the nearest table and strode towards Emma, ignoring her cries and screams and feeble attempts to bite him as he wrestled her jaw shut, and fixed a strip of tape over her mouth. Once he wiped the spit and tears from his hand, he marched towards the door, throwing one last glance back at her pitiful, shaking, sobbing frame, now limp on the table, before stepping through the door and slamming it behind him.

*

Paul tried his best not to jostle the microphone pinned to the inside of his shirt as he pulled the front of his jacket tighter over his chest. The sun was beginning to set, taking what little warmth was left in the air with it. Every second was worse than the one before as time dragged on, leaving Paul to stew in his fear alone on the trail. The woods, the wind, the imposing gate in front of him… the silence wasn’t exactly endearing him to any of them. It especially didn’t help that Hidgens was taking an unusually long amount of time to answer the door.

 _“Remember Paul,”_ the General’s voice crackled in his ear, _“You can’t let him think you’re accusing him of anything – you need to make it sound like you’re going to him as a figure of trust. Play the angle of concern, don’t let him suspect you of anything else.”_

 _I am concerned,_ Paul very much wanted to retort, but at long last, the intercom buzzed to life.

 _“Who is it?!”_ the Professor’s voice demanded over the speaker, in his usual manner.

Paul exhaled deeply through his nose. “Hey, Professor – it’s Paul.”

The speaker went dead for 5 agonizing seconds.

 _“…Paul?”_ was the eventual reply.

Paul had no idea how to decipher the old man’s tone, so he pinned it down to the commonality of his name. “Yeah, Paul Matthews? Look, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just.. it’s getting late, and Emma still hasn’t come home. She hasn’t answered any of my texts either, so I was wondering whether she said anything to you, I don’t know… if she mentioned wanting to go somewhere after the lecture?”

 _“Nicely done,”_ said Xander, in his earpiece. Yet again, the line went dead for an uncomfortable amount of time.

When Professor Hidgens did speak, his voice had grown solemn. _“Paul, my boy… I think you had better come inside – there’s something we need to discuss.”_

His heart crashed into his ribs. “Professor, where’s Emma?”

 _“Easy, Paul, easy,”_ a steady voice reminded him. He ignored it.

“Professor?” he asked again, not bothering to wait out another silence.

The gate’s hinges whined and protested as the mechanism forced them open. _“Like I said, Paul – you really ought to come inside for this.”_

*

“I’m sorry, you’re doing WHAT?” Schaeffer screeched into her phone, wincing as her own shrill voice echoed through the dim and dusty tunnel. Behind her, she heard the technician trip up, causing his cargo to clatter clumsily in the wheelbarrow she had provided him with to transport it. She pressed the receiver against her shoulder to turn around and glare at him. “Would you be careful?” she spat. “That thing’s worth more than all of your organs combined.” With a roll of her eyes, she pulled her phone back up to her ear. “This better be some kind of stupid joke, because if it isn’t, I swear to God I will rip out your left femur and shove it so far down your throat that it gives you a tail!”

 _“Schaeffer, that’s oddly specific,_ ” Professor Hidgens remarked. He continued before she had the chance to yell at him again. _“Don’t you worry, I’ve got it all under control – just try not to make any noise leaving the tunnel. I’ll keep him as far away from the lab as I can, send him on some fool’s errand. I’ve got the perfect excuse… in fact, if anything I’ll be giving myself a sound alibi.”_

Schaeffer scoffed. “An alibi? We don’t have time for this – kill him, drug him, I don’t care which, just make it quick.”

The Professor tutted. _“Careful, June, dear, you’re growing rash. I think we both know that’s too risky. Don’t want any unnecessary attention from the local authorities, now, do we?”_

“…Fine – go on then, let’s hear it. This better be good.”

His tone was unbearably smug. _“I had the foresight to use Emma’s phone to order a bus ticket to Clivesdale using their joint finance account; I’ll tell him she mentioned wanting to get out of Hatchetfield, but that I didn’t think she meant so soon. If he checks with the bank, he’ll find the proof of her departure, and I will be absolved of suspicion. He’ll have nothing else to go on, any search will be in vain, and we’ll have plenty of time to finish our operation.”_

As pissed as Schaeffer was, she had to admit she was a little impressed with how well-prepared the Professor was. Not verbally, though. “Just keep it quick; I’m tired of waiting.”

 _“As am I, colonel. Right, he’s nearly at the door – it’s showtime!”_ The line went dead, and Schaeffer tucked her phone back into her pocket.

*

Xander’s eyes hurt. Perplexed, he wiped away the moisture seeping from his eyelids, realising with a start that he hadn’t blinked since the call began, hence all the stinging and the tears. He dragged the headset down onto his neck and took a deep breath. The temptation to grab John’s microphone and yell at Paul to get out was almost overwhelming, but he contained himself, reasoning that he had heard their plans. Even if June had temporarily expressed a wish to harm a civilian, Xander knew they were fully intending to let him leave.

At least they had 5 operatives on standby in case they changed their minds.

Something patted his shoulder. Looking to his right, he saw John giving him a concerned look. Xander looked back at the laptop resting on his knees, and the buzzing of the waves that flashed across the screen, then back to John. He was no longer muttering words of reassurance to Paul, and had taken his finger off of the button at the base of his microphone.

Xander gulped. “I just intercepted an… interesting phone call.” Fortunately, the whole thing had been automatically recorded – two horrifying confessions in one.

John’s eyes widened. “Who was-?“

He was interrupted by a pair of static voices over the speaker.

_“Ah, Paul, good to see-“_

_“You said we needed to talk?”_

_“Ah, well… yes. Do step inside.”_

Xander and John shared a knowing look.

_One thing at a time._

In a way, Xander was grateful to put off playing the call to John; he got the sense that they were both holding out hope that June had nothing to do with any of this. If he could spare John from the painfully irrefutable truth for a little while longer, he would.

*

“Really, Professor, I just want to know what she told you,” Paul insisted, stopping Professor Hidgens in his tracks as he went to pour them both tea. He stared back at him, holding the pot suspended in mid-air over two identical teacups to the ones he had given them mere days before. Something not unlike hostility crossed his gaze and darkened his furrowed brow, but it was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Paul to wonder if it had ever been in the first place. The Professor put the pot down, sitting down slowly in a cautious, glum manner.

“Paul,” he began, his voice gruff, respectful and intensely apologetic. The sort of voice people use at funerals. “I swear, I had no clue that Emma was being serious when she told me…”

Paul frowned. “Told you what?”

The Professor looked at him with sedate agony carved into his every feature. Until that point, Paul had feared the worst of Emma’s estranged mentor, but all he could understand in the man sat moping before him was brutal honesty and regret. “That… that she wanted to leave Hatchetfield.”

Paul dropped into the chair behind him.

“She left?”

The Professor walked back to the window, just like last time. “It would seem so. She mentioned Clivesdale, but I think she was just thinking of passing through. I don’t know… she mentioned it so briefly, I never even considered taking it seriously.” A firm hand clasped Paul’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I promise, if I had known, I would’ve tried to stop her.”

“She’s gone?” Paul asked. His mind felt like a broken record, always faltering on the same note.

“She’s gone,” the Professor confirmed. “Maybe there’s some way you can track her down, maybe try and find out which ticket she bought… did you by any chance use a joint finance account? It might be worth checking. How about…”

Paul wasn’t listening.

He had been dreading her loss for what felt like forever. An eternity of uncertainty, of fear that the one person he had ever come to properly, passionately and truly love… would leave.

He thought they’d resolved everything.

He thought he would have a little while longer.

Her pained voice echoes through his mind.

_“I can’t do this.”_

It couldn’t be true. What about Tim? About Tom? What about her job?

What about _him?_

What about those moments – she had to feel them too – moments when they came just a little closer to each other than normal, close enough for a warm thrill to pass through that distance. Surely something that affected him so significantly couldn’t just be the product of his own fantasy?

Fantasy. Was that what his life had become?

For so long, Emma Perkins had been an enigma to him. Someone far away and out of reach, someone he was lucky to even catch a brief glimpse of in his pitiful trips to Beanies. He almost couldn’t believe that she agreed to go out for drinks with him that one time he impulsively asked her. He always thought a woman like that would never- _could_ never love him like that.

Maybe there had been some truth to it after all.

The Emma who had loved him was a lie. That love had been a lie, also.

Paul stood up. “Thanks for letting me know, Professor.”

Hidgens gave him a sympathetic look. “Are you gonna be okay, Paul?”

He shrugged. “I think I just wanna go home.” He couldn't break down, not yet. He needed to be alone.

“You’re not gonna try and look for her?”

Paul stared over the Professor’s shoulder and out of the window. The sky was smeared with startling shades of orange and pink in the waning light of dusk, and the tips of the firs were swaying wildly in the rising wind. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”

*

John stared up the leaf-littered road, watching eagerly for any sign of Paul’s return. Frowning, he brushed a hand over his stubble, trying to organise his thoughts.

“His story checks out,” a voice piped up from behind him. Agent Robert Branson held a tablet between the front seats, showing John what he was referring to. “A one-way ticket to Clivesdale was purchased using their joint account over an hour ago.” John nodded, and Branson retracted the device.

“So I take it the phone call you intercepted had something to do with this?” he asked Xander. If anything, he felt bitter. A meeting that was supposed to shed light on the case had instead left it shrouded in yet more uncertainty.

“…Yes, if by ‘something to do with’, you mean ‘proves it was all bullshit’.”

_Wait, what?_

John looked to Xander. He wore an odd expression; the sternness of regret but with undeniable life and alertness in his eyes. That was the look of someone who had a lead… just not a very nice one. “Well?” John asked, unsure of what else to say. If there was conclusive proof the Professor had been lying to Paul, that Emma hadn’t actually left Hatchetfield…

“I think we should wait until Paul gets back,” said Xander, jerking his chin at the gate in the distance; a tall, slouching figure was passing through it as they spoke. “But… John?”

“Hm?”

“The call was between the Professor… and June.”

John stayed silent for a moment. When he did speak, all he could manage was, _“Fuck.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine recently got me into Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel, and as a result I had the song Addict running through my head whilst writing most of this chapter. That, and Inside by Blue Kid, because it lives rent free in my head at all times.  
> To sum up, John and Xander have work to do, Paul and Emma aren't having fun, and Hidgens is fuckin _loving it._  
>  also, all of the comments are so adorable, i love that people seem to be concerned about the unfolding events. Thankfully, we're soooo close to finding out the full story!


	19. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vague plan is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! (if you don't celebrate it - Happy December!)  
> I'm very drunk rn, but I have a thing I can't really include in the fic properly so I'm gonna do it here, and that's despriptions of the 3 agents:  
> Robert Branson - the one played by Robert Manion (I got the last name from Downton Abbey). He likes to play lone wolf but just wordlessly give him a packet of oreos when he's sad and he will literally take a bullet for you. His main strength in PEIP is strategy (and sass)  
> Rachael Jahku - the one played by Rachael Soglin (I got the last name from a friend with the same one). Pretty much Xander's protégé, tech-genius newly-wed who's very much in love and will very much beat you in any board game with zero mercy, especially Uno and Scrabble.  
> Brian Turner - the one played by Brian Holden (last name from another friend). Kinda quiet and reserved, but get a couple of drinks in him and he's the life of the party (and won't shut up about his girlfriend Meredith and how awesome she is). He's also an impeccable marksman and hasn't missed a shot in 7 years.  
> Hope that helps in chapters to come, and I hope you enjoy! (side note, holy fuck I can't believe how close this fic is to 1000 hits! That's so amazing and I still can't believe that people actually enjoy reading this, so thank you so so much!)

The evening was cold and silent. He wasn’t exactly walking, more… _drifting_ back down the sloping drive, as if it was only the breeze causing the auburn leaves scattering the ground to shift and crumble in his wake, and not his dragging feet.

Paul supposed he was upset, but he knew it wouldn’t hit him until later on, left alone in an apartment that for so long had been filled with life and laughter and promise. Now, those familiar walls would seem distant and uncaring, and he would spend hours flicking through the photos where he stashed them, taking his time to meticulously place them all back exactly where they had been before his life turned to ruin. He would look at them and waste, crumbling inwards and finally allowing himself to grieve.

The love of his life was gone.

Nothing else mattered.

*

John didn’t bother shutting his door as he got out, knowing he would be heading back to it in less than a minute. Paul was almost at his car, and he headed over to deliver the news that they had evidence of the Professor’s deceit (despite not yet knowing what it was). At the very least he expected the man to be confused after the meeting, if not suspicious. It surprised him greatly, therefore, to see that there was no hint of either in Paul’s face once he got close enough to make out his expression.

He looked broken.

So much so, it was startling. John had to remind himself who he was dealing with; not a soldier, not an agent, but an average citizen. An ordinary man who was very much in love, and had just been told that the object of his affection had left him. John recalled Paul’s account of events he had given them earlier that day, how Emma had desperately wanted to leave at first, how conflicted she had seemed. When he took everything in, it was no longer surprising to John that Paul had taken the Professor’s words at face value, given that the account didn’t sound entirely out-of-character.

He sped up slightly, the sooner to right the egregious wrong and spare the man any more hurt.

By the time John made it to Paul’s car, he was sitting sideways in the driver’s seat with his feet still on the ground, leaning out of the car with his head in his hands. He mustn’t have heard John’s approach, as when he knelt down beside him and tapped his shoulder, Paul jumped slightly at the contact.

Paul cleared his throat and dragged his hands through his hair. “Sorry, Gener- McNamara- Sir, I was just…” He let out a ragged sigh. “I’m okay… I’m okay…”

“Paul, there’s no easy way to say this,” John began, before realising he wasn’t sure of how to continue; the surety he had possessed on his way over had fallen away at the sight of Paul’s distraught face.

“Please, you don’t have to say anything, it’s fine. I’m, uh… I’m sorry to have wasted your time like this-“

“No, Paul, that’s not what I meant.” They looked at each other for a moment. Something changed in Paul’s face, but he was still upset enough for John to feel like he had to look away. It felt like he was intruding on his vulnerability, and took to looking back at the wrought iron gate, hoping it would make his job a little easier.

“What is it?” Paul whispered. He sounded hopeful. Somehow, that was harder to bear.

“Xander… intercepted a phone call, just before you entered the manor. Now, I haven’t yet heard it, but my colleague seems to believe it contains evidence that Professor Hidgens was lying to you.” Paul didn’t respond. John looked back at him. He was completely still, staring at John with an unreadable expression. “Paul?”

Another beat passed before he reacted. “He was lying?”

“It would seem that way,” John confirmed.

“Then Emma…” He trailed off, making it sound more like a question than anything.

John stood up and held out his hand to help Paul to his feet. “Let’s just go take a listen, shall we?”

*

_“As am I, colonel. Right, he’s nearly at the door – it’s showtime!” _And with that, the call ended.__

Silence flooded the car, even with the door hanging open.

Certain phrases echoed through Paul’s head.

_“Kill him, drug him, I don’t care which…”_

_“Emma’s phone…”_

_“Finish our operation…”_

Those last two were the loudest.

He had her phone?

He ran the entire call back though his mind again. There was no mention of Emma’s actual whereabouts, just that the Professor had somehow obtained possession of her phone.

_“Finish our operation…”_

What did that mean?

Operation as in some kind of military effort? The general _did_ mention the other voice was supposed to be another agent.

But then, operation could also mean…

Sickening images flashed across his mind.

Scalpels.

Blood.

_Emma._

He shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind, refusing to give them any credibility. He had to focus. Of course, with focus, came anger.

And with anger, determination.

*

“What do you suppose he meant by ‘tunnel’?” John asked.

Xander shook his head, not knowing. Truthfully, he was still trying to wrap his head around Schaeffer. Listening to that call a second time, hearing the cold edge in a voice he’d only ever associated with warmth and familiarity.

It was beyond unsettling.

Another reason to get to the bottom of what was going on. “I don’t know…” Xander replied. “I suppose I could try and track where the signal was coming from? Paul, do you know anything about a tunnel? You’re the only one of us who’s been here before,” Xander asked as he typed.

It took Paul (who was sitting in John’s seat, as John listened from the car door) a couple of seconds to reply. “Uh, not really… I- there’s a tunnel between the foyer and his lab, but that wouldn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” John asked. Xander had finished typing, and listened in as he waited for the programme to load.

“Well, there’s no other entrance to the lab. He said, _‘try not to make any noise leaving the tunnel’,_ but any noise they might make going _into_ the lab wouldn’t be audible from where we were, and they couldn’t have been coming _out_ because then we would’ve crossed paths.”

“So where do you think they were?” John’s voice was growing increasingly intense.

“I don’t know, maybe… maybe there’s some kind of tunnel that leads into the estate from somewhere else? I don’t know, I’m sorry, I know that sounds-“

The programme finished loading. _Holy shit._ “Uh, actually, that would make sense,” Xander interjected, as two dots blinked at him on his radar.

“You’ve traced the signals?” John asked, leaning over Paul slightly to get a better look at the screen. Xander angled it slightly to make it visible to everyone in the car, including the 3 silent agents sitting patiently behind them.

Xander pointed at the flashing green dots. “Right, so if we’re in the centre, then this one,” he pointed at the first dot, “it looks to be coming from inside the manor, so it’s gotta be Hidgens. But _this_?” He moved his finger to hover over the second dot, almost at the edge of the radar, nowhere near Hidgens or the car. “This one isn’t near anything… judging by the distance, it’s gotta be at the edge of the Witchwoods, but I can’t think of anything of importance that would be that far out from the rest of the town.”

John rubbed his chin and looked out at the darkening trees. “Which way is it?” Xander pointed to the left of the gate in the general direction of Schaeffer’s supposed position. John sighed. “What would she be doing in the middle of nowhere?”

“The power plant,” Paul said suddenly. “Where you said that homeless guy used to work. That’s the only thing out that way. It could be coming from there.”

Xander shook his head. How had he not thought of it before? “That must be where she took it,” he said with a sardonic chuckle. “That place has been abandoned for a _year_ , it’s the perfect hiding spot…” Images flashed across his mind of a deteriorating Dr. Fletcher manically scribbling notes in the shadows of some dusty closet, obsessing over his regret and the work he lamented. He imagined Schaeffer – not the smirking, sassy firecracker he knew her to be, but a cold and detached stranger – finding these scraps of paper and piecing together the nonsense they related, like a demented jigsaw puzzle of the tormented man’s mind and memories. He saw her standing by the machine, looking at it with knowing in her eyes, its purpose being evident in them. A secret they had yet to unlock.

He dismissed his speculations, knowing they weren’t helpful. They had something to work with. After all, they couldn’t exactly stroll in the front door; Rachael Jahku, one of the operatives who was accompanying them on their reconnaissance, was an agent Xander handpicked for the mission, with her being one of the most promising recruits in his tech division. Using a probe of her own design, she had determined within 2 minutes of their arrival that there were no less than 20 different anti-intrusion devices within a 50 ft range of the car. They desperately needed another way in, and by the looks of things, they'd just found it.

“Are you sure that’s the only thing out that way?” John asked Paul.

“Definitely,” he replied, sounding more confident than Xander had ever heard him to be.

“Right then – agents?” John announced, placing a hand on the roof of the car and staring at each of its occupants in turn. “Once we make it to the power plant, we must be efficient, but more than that – much more – we must also be vigilant; find the tunnel, head to the manor _undetected_ ,” he gave Jahku a meaningful nod, which she returned, “and find our suspects. June…” he faltered slightly on the name. “The colonel must be kept alive for questioning, as must the Professor, but our top priority is Ms. Perkins. As Cross said, if you have to choose who is kept alive, choose _her_. You will not face consequences if either of the suspects are harmed to meet this end.” With that, he straightened up, turning his gaze on Paul. The man stared back at him, jaw clenched and eyes unyielding.

“Paul…” John began, eyes filled with sympathy.

Xander interrupted before he could say any more. “I know you said you don’t know much about the manor’s interior, but we could do with your help getting around.” He gave John a meaningful look, causing him to look down and step back. Paul turned to Xander, eyes filled with gratitude. He couldn’t help but smile. “We’ll keep you safe in there; there’s some spare Kevlar in the trunk we’ll need you to wear, but you shouldn’t need it.”

“Let’s get you back to your car, and you can show us the way to the plant,” said John, giving Paul a reassuring slap on the shoulder. Xander opened his door and stepped out of the car just as Paul started whispering a string of determined _‘okay’_ s. Back at eye-level with John, they shared a moment of silent communication as Xander walked around the front of the car. John’s eyes were screaming an unmistakable _‘what the fuck?’_. Xander did his best to make his own say _‘trust me on this’._ Their limited interaction was cut short as Paul stepped out of the car.

They walked him back to his car in silence, broken only as Xander informed him that they’d “talk more at the plant.” With that, Paul closed his door, and Xander and John were free to air their thoughts.

“Xander, I don’t think-“ John began.

“We can’t ask him to stay behind!” objected Xander, keeping his voiced slightly hushed lest they still be within earshot.

“If it means saving the man’s life, yes we can.”

“With all due respect, _sir_ ,” Xander snapped, instantly regretting his sharp tone. John raised his eyebrows, but didn’t seem to show any sign of offense. Xander softened his expression. “We’re going after the love of his _life_. I know he keeps denying it, but you’ve seen just as well as I have how he feels. If something happens to her – or has _already_ happened – do you think he’d be able to accept it? I know I wouldn’t, if…” Xander stopped himself. He had said too much; recognition dawned over John’s face. He looked down and desperately tried to ignore his own blushing as he changed tack. “Look, all I’m saying is… he deserves to be there. He _deserves_ to know what happens. I mean,” he pointed at their car, “we have 3 of the most capable agents the United States’ military has ever seen on our side. If you’re concerned about his safety, you shouldn’t be; we’ve _got this._ Besides, it’s not like we’re going up against an entire army here.”

When he looked back at John, there was something in his eyes, a gentle fondness of sorts, that he wasn’t used to seeing there. When he spoke, his voice came out soft. “Xander, there’s something I-“

“We should get going,” Xander interrupted, gesturing at both of the cars they had stopped halfway between sometime during their conversation.

“Right,” John agreed, before clearing his throat and striding off towards their car. Xander waited a moment before following, taking a much needed second to breathe and remind himself of the mantra he had come to depend on in situations such as this one:

_One thing at a time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the song Addict is still very much in my head and i'm slowly becoming obsessed with Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel)  
> Hopefully gonna start ramping up the tension now, over the next few chapters, so stay tuned! (yup, that's an Alastor quote from the aforementioned H.H).  
> also, on the note of 'tension', do Xander and John need to have a talk? I don't know... I'll let you guys decide!  
> Again, Merry Christmas, and no matter what you guys celebrate, I hope you all feel safe and loved, because you all deserve the world and I love you so much!!!!!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As two parties converge, the third draws nearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an in-between-chapter, but also not. I don't know. I'm tired. How are you?  
> Hope you enjoy!

Schaeffer had been in the tunnel for far too long, and was starting to grow sick of it. It was all the technician’s fault; he took ages to move the wheelbarrow even a short distance, then when she ordered him to hurry up, he was too clumsy. She needed someone capable, not a ridiculous, dawdling sad-act with an inferiority complex and zero upper-body strength.

She needed a PEIP agent.

The irony of that was not lost on her; that the very sort of person that would actually be of any use to her could never know of the S-P unit.

She had never bothered proposing it to McNamara or Cross, knowing it would be immediately turned down, and that she would go down in their estimation for even thinking of it. By their reckoning such a project would be considered ‘unethical’.

They were all cowards.

At least she had found her sponsor in the end, someone who wasn’t concerned with the particulars. She hadn’t exactly lied to the Secretary of Defence in order to gain his trust, and it wasn’t her fault if he… _misinterpreted_ her idea. What difference did it make, anyway? She had promised him a weapon, one that would revolutionize covert operations and reduce the loss of human lives in active duty, and that was exactly what he was going to get.

Professor Hidgens was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel, a smug look plastered over his face. “I thought I’d wait for you.”

Schaeffer was reluctant to talk to him, but she did it anyway. “Has he been gone long?”

The Professor shrugged. “A few minutes? Everything went exactly to plan,” he stated proudly as he helped the technician lift the wheelbarrow up the stairs. “He bought every word, and the best part is he isn’t even going to look for her.”

She would have praised him, but they were nearing the end and her eyes were fixed on the target. “Is she awake?” she asked, opening the hatch into the dusty kitchen.

“She was last I saw her. Of course, she freaked out when the bell rang, but I shut her up.” Once the wheelbarrow had been pushed up the last couple of steps, the Professor closed the hatch behind them. “I should warn you, she isn’t going to make this easy.”

“That’s okay; I like a challenge.”

The Professor shrugged a second time, then gestured to the door. “I trust you know the way to the lab? I’ll be with you shortly, I just need to re-engage the alarm for this,” he explained, tapping the hatch with his foot.

“That’s fine,” said Schaeffer, walking towards the door. “We’ll just go set everything up.”

*

It took longer than Emma would’ve liked to regain her grip on her emotions. The moment her mouth had been sealed shut, and she was robbed even of the right to scream…

That had felt like the end.

Every muscle in her body relaxed in an instant- or, rather, they lost the ability to remain contracted. Once the tears started, a wave of despair had washed over her, ready to overwhelm her struggling spirit and suffocate her.

She allowed herself roughly 5 minutes to give up completely. Alone, she cried without shame and ditched every dream she’d ever had, knowing for definite that they would never come to fruition.

Fortunately for Emma, the loss of hope, under certain circumstances, can be delightfully paradoxical. After all, whilst hope can be a comfort and a friend to those who need it, it has never been a necessity. Knowing that one has nothing left to live for can be freeing for some; as it was, Emma found herself experiencing a sudden and inexplicable surge of courage, which is infinitely more valuable when one’s life hangs in the balance. Her pain, her fear, even her frustration, all of this faded in an instant. The vague sensation of empowerment itself was brief, but it taught her something valuable:

Where there is life, there is hope.

She didn’t need to see it, or even feel it, to realise that there was always a chance that any situation, no matter how bleak or increasingly desperate it was, could turn around at any moment.

As long as she reminded herself of that-

The door was slowly pushed open. The door itself (a metal, vault-like monstrosity) shielded whoever was entering from view, giving Emma a small window of time in which she could compose herself; god forbid the Professor believe she had been entirely broken. There had been no doubt in her mind that it was Hidgens entering, back from dismissing her only opportunity to escape from the premises. She took one last breath, only for it to catch in her throat as an unfamiliar man backed into the room.

He was tall, around Paul’s height, with dark skin covered in a sheen of sweat, especially above his brow, as beads of perspiration were forming on his temple. His clothes were relatively non-descript; just trousers and a navy polo. A uniform of some kind, perhaps, but for what Emma had no clue. The man was straining as he dragged something heavy in with him, which was gradually revealed to her as he made it inside the lab: a wheelbarrow, with a tattered and stained cloth concealing its contents. Being focused entirely on the movement of the barrow, the man paid no attention to Emma, not even throwing a cursory glance in her direction. As a result, she kept her gaze fixed securely on both him and his cargo, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he had seen fit to cover up.

Unfortunately, this caused something to slip Emma’s notice, until its realisation hit her like a slap to the face.

As the man struggled with the weight of whatever he was moving, someone had slipped into the room silently behind him, and was waiting still half-behind the door, watching Emma with a maddeningly calm smile. It was a face she had seen only once before, one that she had suppressed and squashed from her memory as if she were throwing sand on an oil spill, unconsciously knowing it to be a dangerous and volatile part of her past that she could never bring herself to acknowledge until it was absolutely unavoidable. Even then, she never expected to be confronted with that haunting face a second time.

_“My name is June – I’m here to help you… Oh yes, you’ll do nicely.”_

Looking back into those piercing eyes, Emma knew she was thinking the same thing, going over their first encounter in her mind, only, she suspected ‘June’ looked back on it with a greater deal of fondness than Emma given the humour in the set of her mouth. Yet again, she had found herself at the mercy of the same cold and unfeeling stranger. It had ruined her life the first time… perhaps the second would end it.

Emma mumbled against the duct-tape. Flashing her a disturbing grin, June stepped around the door and closed the distance between them, before ripping the tape from her mouth. Emma gasped as the sudden sting flashed across her skin, but she refused to let any other sound escape her throat. Instead, she maintained eye-contact, focusing on a rather large clump of mascara just above June’s left eye. It gave her a little more confidence, allowing her to speak without a shaking voice.

“Good to see you, June,” Emma greeted with sarcastic monotony. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the man turn to look at her, perhaps surprised by her cheek. June seemed unaffected; she left out a slight exhale, but every facet of her expression stayed the same.

“It’s colonel to you,” she responded dryly, “Colonel Schaeffer.” She said her own name with reverence, which Emma couldn’t help but find amusing. “And this is…” She gestured behind her at the man, who wouldn’t look at Emma, but hesitated before she could say his name. “…my associate,” she finished. The man’s eyes widened slightly, evidently offended that she had clearly forgotten his name.

It was then that Emma remembered her epiphany about the loss of hope. “I’m sorry, who is that?” Emma asked before June could continue. If she was going to die, she was going to go out doing what she did best – being a little shit to condescending strangers.

June looked at her with an unreadable expression. When she spoke, it was evident that she had decided to ignore Emma’s attitude. “I’m sure you’re wondering, Ms. Perkins, why you’re-“

“Yo, buddy, what’s your name?” Emma asked the man. At last, he looked at her, eyes filled with alarm. June shot him a furious glare, causing him to turn around and busy himself with the computer behind him. “Oh, come on man, don’t be shy! I bet you’ve got a lovely name, an-“

As Emma spoke, she had rather foolishly paid no notice to June. If she had, she would have seen her shrug, pull something out of her pocket and extend it, and it would have come as less of a surprise when June beat her rather forcefully in the stomach with a telescopic truncheon. The blow cut Emma off mid-sentence and snatched the air from her lungs. She cringed into her restraints as pain flared across her stomach, until June grabbed her by the chin and pressed the truncheon firmly against her neck, leaning in until their faces were mere inches apart. Emma focused her watering eyes yet again on the clump of mascara, now close enough for her to count the eyelashes it pinned together.

Schaeffer’s words came out in a rapid, intense whisper. “Listen to me you pathetic low-life,” she spat, “This isn’t some cheesy afterschool special where the good-guys win and everyone gets to live happily-ever-after, and you sure as shit aren’t no sassy, untouchable protagonist who can say whatever the fuck they want and not face consequences. When are you gonna get it through your thick skull that your life belongs to me, huh? If you keep trying to be smart, it’s not gonna end well for you – I can’t exactly kill you, but test me, and you’re gonna find out why that’s really not a good thing.”

Emma was impressed; there were five eyelashes stuck in the clump.

Schaeffer stayed where she was, presumably waiting to see if Emma would dare respond to her threats. She considered telling her about the clump out of pure morbid curiosity, but thought better of it in the end; her stomach was still in a lot of pain, and there was no reason to find out how else the colonel could hurt her. Emma kept quiet but maintained eye-contact – compliant, yet never submissive.

“Having fun, June?” Schaeffer turned around, allowing Emma to see Professor Hidgens lingering in the doorway. He looked concerned for a moment, then apathetic the next. “You know, you really ought to be careful with her, or we won’t be able to send her back.” He sighed, shaking his head. “She’s a mouthy one, I know, just try not to leave too much of a mark.”

“Send me back?” Emma asked. “What the fuck do you mean ‘send me back’, what, are you gonna let me go?”

Three sets of eyes fixed themselves on her face. Without breaking her stare, June addressed her companion. “Why don’t we show Ms. Perkins why she’s here, _Alistair.”_

Alistair showed no emotion at having his name remembered. He simply did as he was told, turning from the computer to the wheelbarrow and whipping off the cloth and throwing it to the side. Not much of its contents were visible to Emma, until Alistair lifted out what was inside and hanged it by the shoulders on a metal frame across the room, so that its mechanical feet barely scrapped the floor.

Her double had changed a great deal since their last encounter. For one thing, it was no longer on fire. Another noticeable difference was that it didn’t have skin – _her skin_ – or eyes, just empty sockets, and the jagged holes left by Paul’s knife were no longer there. In an odd way it looked brand new, like someone had put a great deal of attention, care and effort into perfecting it, until the silver plates of metal covering most of its exterior were spotless, and not an inch of wire (which she knew to be tucked away inside) was visible.

Schaeffer collapsed her truncheon with a click and tucked it back in her pocket. “Wake her up; it’s time these two got to know each other.”

*

It was easier to find the entrance to the tunnel than John expected. They had decided to split up into teams of 2 (Branson and Turner, Xander and Jahku, and John and Paul) to search the abandoned plant, keeping regular radio contact as a precaution. John and Paul were the ones who found it, after surveying a map hung on the wall of one of the corridors. It indicated that on the lower level there was an access tunnel, one that ran right to the edge of the poster. They made their way over to it, opening the door to reveal a seemingly endless set of stairs, disappearing into the shadows before they could make out how far down they went. It was the only thing on the map that indicated an underground layer to the facility, so John had informed the other two teams that they had found it and waited patiently by the door for their arrival.

As they waited, John had a lot to think about, none of which he could actually afford to get into. He had always felt that the bond he had formed with Xander over the years was one of mutual understanding, never imagining there to be anything unspoken between them. The truth is, he’d never really considered it. Xander was a given, the man fit so seamlessly into his life right from the beginning that he had never thought to question the nature of their bond. And yet, when Xander hesitated before, he understood why. It was as if he’d always known, when in reality it had never crossed his mind before.

This was unfolding in the background of John’s mind, but the moment he caught himself, he dismissed it. He was a General, in the field, with a civilian under his protection. He had to stay focused.

Paul, he noted, was no longer shaking. He seemed perfectly calm, in fact. He had stayed silent in the car, and when they had given him his bulletproof vest. They had offered to help him with it, knowing that the straps are a little hard to manage the first time round, but he had simply shaken his head, putting it on with careful precision. Now, as they waited by the door, Paul had taken to leaning against the opposite wall and staring into nothing.

John thought it best to say something, just in case. “You don’t have to participate in the mission if you don’t want to, Paul. We have several of the most capable operatives working this case, with more on standby should we need them.”

Paul didn’t look at him, but he acknowledged him with a shake of the head. “I’ll be alright,” he sighed, pushing himself off the wall to pace a little. After a moment, he let out a strange, soft chuckle. “You know, I’ve only known her for 6 days. And yet… she’s still the woman I married. I keep telling myself that’s wrong, that she doesn’t love me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I made a vow, not just to her, but to myself. That I would do everything in my power to be worthy of her. Not that- I don’t expect- this isn’t- _ugh_.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath before continuing. “She’s gonna leave me at some point, she has to, I _know_ that. But she deserves to live. And more than that, she deserves to have at least one person on this fucking planet who’s on her side, no matter what.”

At such a moment as this, John would usually talk about love and the strength of the human heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he thought it best to prepare Paul as best as he could.

“Have you ever fired a gun?” he asked.

Paul looked up at him, taken aback. “Uh, once, in Scouts, but I hated it and dropped out.”

That was good enough for John, the man had to be able to protect himself somehow. He pulled out one of his own guns and pointed it at Paul, who staggered back slightly in alarm. John let the gun spin around his finger until the handle has facing Paul. The man still stared at him, confused. John though it best to explain.

“I’m authorizing you to use my firearm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna make the next chapter longer (maybe) because I want to try and build some momentum, I was hesitant before because of the coding issues but eh, I've now got playlists to entertain me as I spend hours correcting it so I might as well.  
> Reading back, I'm not really happy with this chapter or the way it's written, but I can't bring myself to change everything, so I'm sticking with it. Hopefully the next one is better :)


	21. Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Paul and the PEIP agents get ready to carry out their rescue mission, Emma learns what she's become a part of.  
>  **Trigger Warning** -wise, there's not a lot haven't already written about, but there's a mention of needles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, I know it's been a while but what with exams, finding energy to write is difficult. Hope you like this chapter, as it's one that I've been looking forward to for a while.  
> Also, the first half is why I did the little PEIP agent profiles in the notes just before chapter 19.

They made their way through the tunnel in complete silence, walking in single file. Paul found himself in the middle of the operatives. It offered him some sense of security, but it also meant he was confined to one specific, measured pace.

His vest had come with a built-in holster, but he kept John’s gun clasped in his clammy hand. It was heavier than he expected, and the safety was on, but it felt better to have it out at the ready. Having always hated guns, this was a new sensation for him. Maybe it was the fact that the very nature of the weapon was threatening to him, and that holding on to it provided him with a constant source of adrenaline, keeping him present. The gun made it hard to focus on anything else, which was a blessing given the circumstance.

It didn’t take long for a dim amber light to become visible in the tunnel up ahead, outside the range of their torches. It grew steadily brighter as they approached, illuminating every cobweb and particle of dust that swirled through the light as their convoy disturbed the air. The source of the light was concealed by a sharp turn at a junction in the tunnel up ahead. It wasn’t until they were only a few feet away from it that Paul realised it was more of a hole in the wall than a turn, as it appeared to have been dug through at some point. The sides of the entrance were jagged and filthy, and the walls inside had apparently been carved straight through the dirt and soil. The amber glow, created by a string of old, flickering bulbs that dangled from the upper-left side by pegs, lit up the rest of the second tunnel, right up to what looked like a rickety set of wooden stairs at the end, 100 or so meters away.

“This’ll take us right under the manor,” Xander confirmed, holding up his tablet to show the rest of them their position on the GPS.

John gave a slight nod. “Jahku?” he asked after a moment. “Why don’t you take the lead?”

Jahku said nothing; she simply took out a small black box from her pocket and stepped to the front of the convoy, positioning herself at the entrance. She flicked up a panel on the front of the device, exposing a small screen and a set of keys.

“It’s just loading,” she muttered.

Paul took the brief window to steady himself with a deep breath. His arm was starting to protest at being locked straight for so long, but he didn’t care.

“We’re clear,” said Jahku, stepping into the tunnel. They followed her one at a time, each trying their best not to trip on the uneven ground, laced over with mud-covered roots that were hard to distinguish from the shadows they cast. They moved slower than before, which made the irregular footing easier to navigate, as Jahku held her device at various angles, pointing it in every conceivable direction before taking a step.

“Do you have any idea which part of the manor they’re likely to be in,” John asked after a while, looking back at Paul from his position behind Jahku. Xander and Branson, who stood between them, looked back at him as well. Paul tried his best not to feel self-conscious as he answered.

“Probably the lab, but really they could be anywhere… I mean, it’s not like I know this place inside out. I don’t even know what they’re doing-“ Paul cut himself off. He couldn’t think about.

“That’s alright, Paul,” John reassured. “The lab sounds like a good place to start. Do you know how to get there?”

“Uhm, from the main entrance, sure.”

“Perfect.”

“We’re under the manor,” Xander interjected. They looked to be just over halfway through the second tunnel, and Paul was relieved to see that the tunnel ahead was lined with cement.

Jahku turned to face them. “I was getting nothing, so I upped the range a little. Looks like the tunnel’s clear, but there’s something ahead by the stairs.”

“Alright, let’s check it out,” said John. “Branson, you stay by Paul, Turner, take Branson’s place.” Turner stepped around Paul, and Branson gave him an affirming pat on the shoulder as they passed each other.

“Chin up, Paul, I don’t bite,” Branson joked, walking beside him. He checked the magazine of his rifle, then nodded at Paul’s pistol. “I see you’re prepared – oh, tuck your thumb around the side, like that,” he said, pointing as Paul repositioned his grasp. It felt a lot more comfortable, and relieved a lot of the strain in his wrist. Paul thanked him in earnest.

Branson smirked. “Don’t mention it.”

At last, they clustered at the base of the stairs. The steep planks lead up to a heavy duty trapdoor above, one that looked vaguely familiar. Jahku climbed up a couple steps and pulled her torch back out, shining it at a discrete, barely noticeable grey rectangle on the side of the hatch. She held her device up to it, until a green dot appeared on the screen and it let out a faint ring.

“Yeah, okay, the hatch’s rigged with an alarm. Give me a sec, I can deactivate it.” With that, she put the device back in her pocket, and instead brought out a case of about the same size. She flipped the lid, took out a small screwdriver, and got to work. Xander joined her on the steps, taking her torch from her and kept it pointed at the alarm, allowing her to work with both her hands.

John turned to face the others. “The moment it’s open, I’ll check if the coast is clear, Turner, I want you right behind me, ready in case something’s wrong. Which reminds me – safeties off, everyone.” He gave them a second to adjust their weapons. It took Paul a couple of seconds longer than the other two, but they waited patiently until he nodded that he was ready. “If it _is_ clear, Paul, that’s where you come in. You’ll come up, take a look around, and let us know if you recognise anything. You’ll tell us what you know, then Branson, if you have any ideas at that point, I wanna hear them.”

A clicking sound brought their attention back to the stairs; Jahku had finished with the alarm, and had closed the lid on her screwdriver case. She and Xander came down, stepping aside to let John pass. He ascended cautiously, pausing with one hand on the trapdoor as he pulled out an identical pistol to the one he had given Paul. He pushed the door up just by a few inches and pointed his gun through the gap. He opened it it a little wider after a few seconds, then enough for him to be able to crawl through it. He closed it after himself, and Turner climbed up the steps to wait.

It was 23 agonising seconds before the door opened again, and Paul’s heart leapt into his throat for a moment before he saw for definite that it was John opening it, and not someone else. He held it wide and gestured for Turner to come up, then for Paul once Turner was inside. He did as he was told, returning the nods each of the PEIP agents gave him as he passed.

He kept his eyes down on his way up, not looking at his surroundings until his head became level with a set of familiar looking tiles.

“We’re in the kitchen,” he stated automatically.

“We’d guessed that already,” John replied, nodding his head in the direction of the oven.

“Oh right, sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, Paul. Just take us through what you know.”

There were three doors in the kitchen, all of which were shut. Paul waited until all the remaining PEIP agents had emerged from the tunnel before he started. He pointed to the first door, the one that faced the trapdoor head on. “There’s another set of stairs through there, which leads to a corridor. That’s where the room he took me to earlier is. Past that, there’s a spiral staircase that leads down into a sort of side chamber? That’s connected to the left side of the foyer. From there you’ll see a giant staircase to the left, and the main entrance to the left. Dead ahead, there’s another door, behind which is a hallway that leads to the lab.”

John nodded. “What about that door?” he asked, gesturing to the one on the adjacent wall to the left.

“That one just leads straight to the foyer, at the end of the hall there’s another door, that’ll put the stairs on the right, the main entrance opposite them, and the door to the lab up ahead to the left.”

“Does the lab have any other exits?” Branson asked.

Paul shook his head. “I didn’t see any, I’m pretty sure it’s a dead end.”

“What about that door?” Xander asked, gesturing at the one behind the now closed trapdoor.

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen it open.”

“Maybe we should check it out first,” Branson suggested. “We need to know where our exits are.”

John took out his gun again. “Good idea. Turner?”

“On it.” Turner and John both approached the door, guns at the ready. John pulled it open and Turner walked in first, with John following close behind. He pulled it shut behind them.

Paul could scarcely breathe as they waited, and he assumed the others felt the same until Branson spoke. “Jahku,” he began, “That thing you did to the alarm… is it permanent?”

She shrugged. “For now… I mean, it’s fixable if that’s what you’re wondering, but it won’t switch back on without some manual interference.” She took out her mini toolkit and waved it slightly to emphasise her point.

Branson considered this for a moment. “Right… okay, thanks.”

Xander, who up until this point had been leaning against one of the counters, stood upright. “Why? You thought of something.”

Branson gave a slight smirk, not saying anything. Instead, he walked past Xander, up to the pantry in the corner of the room. He pulled it open and inspected its contents.

“Ooh, oreos,” he said after a few moments.

Xander groaned. “Branson, what have I told you about snacking on missions?”

He turned back to face them, a packet of oreos in one hand and a half eaten cookie in the other. “Uhh… share?”

Xander didn’t look impressed. Branson held out the packet for him anyway.

“Put them back,” he ordered. Pouting, Branson did as he was told, but stayed in the pantry when he was done, shutting the doors behind him.

“I can still see you guys,” he whispered through the gap between them.

Xander gave a sigh of annoyance. “Branson, will you quit fucking around?”

“Wait,” Paul said, before he knew what he was doing. Xander looked surprised that he had spoken, but fortunately not offended. Paul looked at the trapdoor, then back at Branson’s hiding place. “I think I know what he’s getting at.”

With that, Branson emerged from the pantry, looking pleased. Xander’s furrowed brow smoothed over as he caught on.

“Right,” he breathed, “So… what’s the whole-“

Branson cut him off. “I don’t know yet, but I will when-“

Right on cue, the third door opened, and through it walked John and Turner. “There’s another exit through there,” John explained. “It’s unlocked, and it leads to that orchard out there." He pointed through the window above the sink and out at cluster off trees that were growing a few yards away. "There’s also a rather large vault door, we think it leads to the greenhouse we saw from outside, but we’re not sure why there’s such a guarded entrance. It looks empty though, we got a good look through the window.”

5 pairs of eyes looked to Jahku. She rolled her own. “Yes, easily,” she stated, not waiting to be asked. John and Turner stepped to the side, allowing her to pass through in the direction of the vault door. They all followed, with Branson rubbing his hands together. He walked with a slight bounce, giving the impression of a kid on Christmas day.

“Alrighty then, who wants to hear my idea?”

Jahku got to work, and the rest of them turned to him expectantly. He opened his mouth to begin, when he was stopped by the echoing of an ear-piercing scream coming from somewhere in the manor.

*

Emma stared intensely at her own hanging metallic corpse, waiting, dreading the moment it would spring back to life. This never happened; instead, the computer’s monitor changed, as streams of script flashed across it. It stayed like that for a couple of minutes before going black. Alistair typed something in, and read aloud what came up on the screen when he was finished.

“She says ‘Are you done with my fucking body yet?’”

Schaeffer gave a dry chuckle. “Tell her we’re just about to get started. Speaking of, Hidgens?”

The Professor was out of Emma’s line of sight, making shuffling noises somewhere behind her. “Almost ready, June, just had to find a bag, I appear to have run out of vials.”

_Bag? Vials?_

Eventually, the Professor came up beside her, wheeling a small trolley in front of him. The ‘bag’ was immediately recognisable – a _blood_ bag – amongst its contents, along with some transparent rubber tubing, a cannula, cotton balls, tape and a small glass jar half-filled with a clear, orange liquid.

“This should only hurt a little, Emma,” he mumbled, unscrewing the cap on the glass jar. At first it sounded like he was trying to intimidate her, but all she got from him was a sense of medical professionalism. He covered the rim with a cotton ball and tipped it upside down, then rubbed the liquid-covered cotton over the skin on the inside of her elbow. She twisted her arm away from him, but he grabbed it and pushed it back into place, wordlessly pinning it to the surface he had tied her to.

“Get the fuck off me,” Emma complained, straining against his hold on her.

“Moaning won’t make this any easier,” the Professor chided. He removed the cotton from her skin, leaving a cold patch where he’d spread what must have been some kind of disinfectant. He let go of her, turning back to the trolley to connect the cannula, tube and bag. “Don’t worry, we don’t want much.” He looked over his shoulder. “This ought to take about 10 minutes, that’ll give us a couple of ounces.”

Schaeffer tutted. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have done this sooner.”

“I didn’t want to take blood from someone without their knowledge, it’s undignified.”

“AGAIN, WHAT PART OF THIS _IS_ DIGNIFIED?” Emma shouted, nerves growing thin. Irritated, Schaeffer pulled out her truncheon and extended it, taking two strides towards Emma before Hidgens stuck out his hand.

“Show some restraint, will you?” he snapped. In a calmer tone, he added, “Allow me.” He dropped what he was holding back on the trolley, and pulled the black pen back out of his pocket.

“No no no, don’t you fucking dare-!” Emma was cut off as he jabbed it into the centre of her chest, causing her to cry out in agony as searing pain coursed through every single nerve in her body. He held it there for much longer than he had before, unaffected by Emma’s screams, her spasming limbs, or the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

When he did remove it, Emma sagged in the restraints, now drained of all energy. She could feel her fingers twitch as if they weren’t her own, and couldn’t force her eyelids to stay open. She could barely hear past her own pulse, which throbbed in her ears somehow even louder than before. She was barely even aware of the stinging sensation as the needle pricked the inside of her elbow, or of the pressure Hidgens applied to her bicep.

All she could feel was her own defeat, crushing her from the inside.

“What do you want?” she sobbed weakly, with her voice broken and hoarse. Emma blinked a few times as soon as she was able, willing her eyes to focus. When they did, she was confronted with June, who was gazing at her with a sickening satisfaction.

She shrugged. “I want funding. Funding for a project that _could_ be revolutionary to the world of espionage.” She paused, taking a moment to give a contemplative glance at the machinery behind her. When she looked back at Emma, she spoke with the same reverence with which she first said her own name. “The Scapegoat Protocol. Any idea what that might be?” Schaeffer paused again, looking smug. Emma didn’t react. “I’ll try to keep it _simple._ You see, Emma, covert operations are getting riskier by the minute. Get one good look at someone’s face and, with the right connections, you can find out everything about them. Who they work for, their social security number, right down to the name of the pet fish they had when they were 6. Anonymity is a thing of the past, and that makes my job a living hell. So I thought, well, there _has_ to be an easier way. And what do you know? There is. See, when you send a highly skilled operative into the field, they take their background with them. If that agent’s compromised, everything’s put at risk. But if you were to send in a civilian…?” She gave another dry chuckle. “They'd learn nothing. If we send in an SP-unit, it doesn’t matter who sees them. We get what we want and get it out of the field, and if anyone identifies them, they’ll be hunting down someone with absolutely no connection to the mission.

“Of course, every great thing faces complications, and it just so happened that this specific iteration,” she gestured to Emma’s double, “Wasn’t quite perfect. The next one, I’m certain, will be, but to get there, I need _funding._ And to get _that,_ I need to prove to my sponsor that I already have what I promised to make. Now, we were hoping to salvage the original android and use that, but we’ve been facing some… technological issues. I of course blame you for this, since it’s a recreation of _your_ conscious mind that’s refusing to co-operate. If I was dealing with a human, this wouldn’t be a problem, but I’m not, I’m dealing with a highly dangerous weapon and it would be a very bad decision on my part to wilfully piss it off. So, we came to a little compromise. You see, Emma, we need your blood – and some tissue – so we can get to work making this machine looking like you again, by effectively growing a second skin from the samples, just like we did the first time... before that _Paul_ set it on fire." Anger flared in Emma's chest at hearing the way she snarled his name. "That’ll take us, what, a week?” She looked to the Professor to confirm.

He tossed his head. “More or less.”

“Perfect. So, once we’re finished with you here, we send you back out into the world and get to work perfecting the SP-unit. When it’s done, we’ll simply… _switch_ you. The AI wants your life back, and we’re gonna give her it. Certainly beats pissing her off, and we can’t make Emma Perkins disappear forever without _someone_ realising, and we definitely don’t want to draw the attention of the authorities – if the civilian’s on a missing persons list, the SP-unit becomes worthless anyway. So, in exchange for leaving us alone, the AI gets to keep living the perfectly normal, self-sustaining life it wanted. Thankfully, its very nature as _artificial_ intelligence makes it innately more selfish than the real deal. The only thing it cares about is itself, which also makes it very easy to please. You, on the other hand… well, you’ll get a week of freedom – without remembering any of this, obviously, we’ll make sure of that – enough to go back to that pathetic husband of yours-" Emma felt another swell of anger, "-and sort everything out with him, then when the time is right, we'll switch your places, and you’ll be right back here with us, ready to be shown off to my sponsor as the dawn of a new age in engineering, espionage, fuck it, even human evolution. He’s already seen the finished product, so he won’t have to look ‘inside’ for any proof. All he needs is a good look at the face he recognises, and he’ll be convinced that you’re the same machine that defected in Guatemala. You’ll demonstrate your compliance, he’ll be satisfied that I’ve made good on my end of the deal, and he’ll give me the funding to continue my work. It’s just a little white lie, Emma, that’s all. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And then, when that’s all over, we won’t need you anymore. Getting rid of you will be easy, and the best part is that no one will even realise you’re gone.”

Emma wanted to be sick.

Still, there was enough rage bubbling away under her skin to compel her to speak. “What makes you think I’ll do what you want?” she asked in a challenging tone. “What are you gonna do, threaten me? You think that’s enough?”

She would have carried on, but Schaeffer was laughing. “Emma…” She almost sounded disappointed behind her amusement. “You’re not gonna have a choice. C’mon, you’ve seen what we’re capable of, do you really think it would be a challenge for us to make you do whatever we want?” Schaeffer spoke as if there was something obvious she was missing. Emma had no clue what she was getting at. Schaeffer addressed Hidgens without looking away from Emma’s terrified face. “Show her what I mean.”

“I have to keep pressure on her arm or the blood flow will slow dow-“

“Fine, _you_ do it,” she huffed, snapping her fingers at Alistair. He looked startled for a moment, and his eyes darted between the three of them.

“It’s over there,” said Hidgens, nodding to the wall behind him. Alistair walked to where he was directed, out of Emma’s sight. He reappeared a few seconds later, holding a petri dish. He came a couple of feet away from Emma and held it out so she could see its contents. Whatever it was that had been placed in the centre of the dish, being shown it didn’t clear up what Schaeffer was talking about.

“What’s the procedure called again, Professor?” Schaeffer asked.

“Sub-occipital craniotomy,” Hidgens stated monotonously.

“That’s the one! Yes, we’re going to plant the chip in your cerebellum.”

 _“We?”_ asked the Professor, indignant.

“Fine, _Professor Hidgens_ will plant the chip in your cerebellum.”

“The… chip?” Emma asked. She didn’t want to believe what she was hearing.

Schaeffer stuck out her bottom lip. “Oh Emma, I know it’s hard for you, but you could at least _try_ to keep up. The chip – or rather, a neuro-bypass probe – was something PEIP designed years ago, before I even joined.” Emma had no idea what PEIP was, but she didn’t really care. “They scrapped it almost immediately, of course, dismissed it as ‘unethical’, but once I reached a high enough clearance level, I became privy to the knowledge of such contraband, so I took what they had and started developing it myself. All we have to do is remotely activate it, and you’ll do whatever we tell you.” She let that sink in for a moment before she continued. “The thing is, Emma, I have something PEIP doesn’t; the ability to recognise that the very notion of morality has no place in this industry. The way I see it… virtue? It’s just vanity, disguised behind the pretence of social integrity. At the end of the day, these people who claim their above such ‘cruelty’… they still kill people. But in doing something the self-righteous hypocrites deem to be inhumane, if you save more lives than you sacrifice, can you truly be called a monster?”

Emma gaped at the callous woman before her. “You’re a fucking psycho,” she whispered with disgust.

Schaeffer gave a nonchalant shrug. “Humanity will thank me.”

The eerily still air was broken as the high-pitched wailing of an alarm came blaring from a speaker in the corner of the room, causing all three people standing in the lab to jump. They looked to each other, shocked.

“The trapdoor – you were followed!” Hidgens yelled over the relentless noise.

“Well then go and take care of it!” Schaeffer yelled back.

“I’m not finished here,” he retorted, gesturing at the tube still in Emma’s arm. Schaeffer briefly looked at Alistair, then shook her head, groaning.

“Fuck it, fine!” She knelt down and lifted up the leg of her trousers, pulling a gun out of a concealed ankle-holster. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I feel like I should confirm that Wooly Foot isn't in the greenhouse.  
> So yeah, that's the whole deal, we know what SP stands for, why the android was built and what Schaeffer's plan B is, and now everyone's in the same place. I was gonna make this chapter a lot longer, but now that paths are crossing, it's gonna get hard to write and I don't want to rush, so I thought it best to save it for another chapter.  
> Again, I hope this chapter was okay. The longer paragraphs took a lot of tweaking, so I hope the explanations weren't too convoluted.


	22. Crocodile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan has been formed - all they have to do now is see it through, and try not to get hurt in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has 9 sections. I don't know how it happened. They're all a bit smaller than normal though.
> 
> So a lot of what happens in the different sections are overlapping events, I've tried to make the timings clear with repeated lines of dialogue, I really hope it isn't confusing because we're kinda in the thick of it now.
> 
> I wrote a lot of this right after doing a face-timed audition the other day for a uni (with a monologue I started learning 2 days before that). It went well, but mentally I just felt like a rubber duckie in the middle of the south pacific. Like, that's what my brain was by that point. Just a little duckie. All yellow. In a big fuckin ocean. I'm tired. I have an exam in 2 hours.
> 
> Enjoy (:

John pulled the magazine out of his gun and clicked it back into place. It wasn’t necessary, but he had to do something. Lord knows he couldn’t just stand there and wait.

A leaf ticked the nape of his neck. He swatted it away.

The greenhouse was humid almost to the point of suffocation. Already, the clotted air was causing beads of sweat to form on his temples. He wiped them away, refusing to acknowledge anything other than the mission at hand.

The good thing about the wild, unkempt foliage that had overtaken every available inch of the room was the abundance of cover. He has a good view of the vaulted entrance, despite being himself very easy to overlook. It helped that the only light streaming through the great, looming glass panes that bordered the greenhouse was the silver echo of moonlight. The sun had long since set, and the automatic lighting had since flickered on in every other part of the manor, but not there. John was shrouded in a cloak of shadow. Whoever came through that door, he’d be completely hidden from them. He’d be ready.

All he had to do was wait.

*

Xander kept his walkie talkie poised underneath his chin, with his finger hovering over the button. They were fortunate the manor was so old, otherwise the keyhole in the door to the side-chamber Paul had described might not have been big enough to offer him the perfect view of the foyer that he had at that moment. It was hardly comfortable kneeling down with his forehead pressed against the cool metal of the doorknob, but he doubted he would have to be there long.

Paul and Turner were silent behind him, and yet Xander could still feel a nervous energy radiating off the person closest behind him.

The moment they had heard that dreadful scream, Turner had had the quick thinking to clasp his hand over Paul’s mouth. Sure enough, the man had gone to cry out, and it took a great deal of effort and panicked whispering to get him to calm back down again, especially since the screaming had gone on for longer than anyone could have wished it to. He had resisted for a moment, but thankfully for all of them, Turner was a natural sedative. He spoke softly into Paul’s ear, soothing him with words too low for Xander to make out, before slowly releasing his grip on Paul. He looked drained, petrified, and like he could fall apart at any moment, but he was quiet and that was what counted. He had nodded to them all that he was okay, and the resolution that came to settle in the back of his gaze convinced Xander that he wasn’t just saying it. If anything, he had gained a new kind of determination.

He usually had no problem severing himself from his emotions when they were in the field, but then Xander had never worked a case quite like this one. He couldn’t help but sympathise with Paul.

He hoped it would serve as encouragement rather than a distraction.

It was only a matter of moments after they had gotten into position when the alarm had been triggered, and only half a minute or so after when the door he had his eyes trained on burst open, and a familiar woman stormed through it, weapon in hand.

He pressed the button on his walkie talkie the instant he clocked her. “It’s Schaeffer,” he whispered into it. “And she’s armed.”

*

Jahku scuttled back into the pantry, shoving Branson back into the shelves to make room for herself.

“Ouch,” he gasped, nudging her in the ribs as she yanked the door shut behind herself.

“Suck it up,” she shot back.

“Meanie.”

“Focus.”

 _“You_ focus.”

_“Shh.”_

The crackling of the radio silenced both of them. _“It’s Schaeffer, and she’s armed.”_

“Copy that,” Jahku whispered into it, before switching off her walkie talkie and pressing her face against the gap between the pantry doors, ready and waiting.

“You take the vault, I’ll take the hatch,” Branson murmured from behind her. She nodded, not wanting to make any noise. Even with the wailing of the alarm she had just triggered, she didn’t want to risk being found. Sure enough, a loud crash alerted them to someone’s entrance, as Schaeffer kicked open the door to the kitchen. Jahku had recovered the hatch with rug they had found curled over behind the hinge, and the door that lead to the vault had been left wide open. She only hoped their old colleague would take the bait.

A dark figure stalked into her line of sight. She had ditched the combat uniform and beret that all of them were so used to, instead wearing a tie-less suit. Something about it was unsettling, but Jahku didn’t know what. Maybe it was her hardened expression, betraying no sign of humanity, that did it.

Schaeffer kicked the rug back from the trapdoor for a moment, her gun pointed at the ground. She stayed there for a moment before looking up and (thankfully) walking on. Jahku listened as her footsteps left the kitchen, then silently pushed open the pantry doors to hide behind the frame Schaeffer had walked through. Still, her footsteps (increasingly hard to make out with the alarm still blaring) continued towards the greenhouse. Jahku risked a peek. She had made it to the vault door, and was cautiously tiptoeing her way inside.

As soon as she was about halfway across the plant-filled room, Jahku crept after her. The moment it was within her reach, she seized the vault door and yanked it shut, whirling the locking wheel before Schaeffer had a chance to pull it back open. Jahku didn’t wait; she ran back to the kitchen, ignoring the banging that had started against the metal of the vault. Branson had also left the pantry, and was pulling open the hatch as Jahku shut the door that led to the greenhouse.

She made sure she was the first one back inside their hiding place, allowing Branson to peek through the gap in the doors once he took his place in front of her and pulled them shut.

By that point, the faint banging had stopped.

The General had got her.

*

Schaeffer gave the vault door one last hit before stumbling backwards in frustration. She had left her transponder in the lab. The only way out of the greenhouse she could think of was shooting out one of the windows, which would definitely alert whoever it was that had locked her in there.

How could she be so stupid, allowing herself to be herded like that?

She knew without a shadow of a doubt it was PEIP, even before a rustling of leaves told her she wasn’t alone.

“Drop the gun, June.”

She turned, wide-eyed, to face John, emerging from the corner, aiming his own weapon at the centre of her head.

“John,” she gasped. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She blinked, allowing them to trickle down her cheeks.

He grimaced. “What have you done?” There was a subtle anger to his words, but it was overpowered by his shock and disappointment.

“Oh God, John, I don’t know…” She tossed her gun to the side and held up her hands, palms out, before using them to wipe her face. “I don’t know how it all started, I tried to tell you, I _swear-“_

“Tell me what?” He demanded. She allowed a sob to break past her lips.

“The secretary of defence,” she confessed, “he’s been blackmailing me for _years_ because of some failed mission in South America, he’s been-been holding it against me so I’d… I’d work on this _disgusting project_ of his!”

John lowered his gun slightly. It was now pointing at her heart. “The android?”

She nodded weakly. “I’m so sorry John, I didn’t know what else to do.”

He heaved a laboured sigh, lowering his gun all the way. She dropped to her knees, keeping her fingers clasped over her face. He said nothing until he was crouching down in front of her.

“I’m taking you in. I’m sorry, June – we’ll discuss this with director Cross. Hold out your hands, I need to-“

Schaeffer cut him off, thrusting the heel of her hand up into his nose, relishing in the satisfying crunch she felt upon impact. The blow took him by surprise and he toppled backwards, clutching his face as he fell. She scrambled for her gun, getting to it before he had a chance to take his own back out. By the time his hands made it to his holster, she was already towering over him.

Schaeffer raised her arm and struck him with the butt of her gun. He collapsed to the ground, unconscious and completely limp.

“You always were soft,” she spat, wiping the crocodile tears from her cheeks. She wanted to finish him off. A single bullet would do the trick, but they’d hear that. Not a bullet, then… she could snap his neck, suffocate him; after all, he wouldn’t put up much of a fight.

There was something about him, however, lying there. Weak. Pathetic. It would have felt… disappointing to finish him so quickly. She had imagined a fight, resulting in a more triumphant victory. She felt the same about Cross in that regard; Wilbur Cross – the only man she detested more than John McNamara. As for John himself, Schaeffer stepped over him, deciding she might as well let him come to and realise how easily he had let himself be tricked. Noble men like John aren’t easily humbled – that was a satisfaction in itself.

The matter of figuring out a discrete escape route was made simple, as, upon scanning her surroundings, Schaeffer spotted a tree. Its winding branches stretched right to the domed glass roof, far enough away that the smashing could go unnoticed.

She left John’s lifeless form behind her without a second thought.

It was time to assess the damage.

*

“Fuck it,” Hidgens grumbled, releasing Emma’s arm and stomping over to the other side of the lab. He snapped his fingers in Alistair’s face. “You, go keep pressure on her arm.” Alistair did as he was told, seemingly unbothered by the Professor’s rude mode of address. Emma ignored him as he grabbed their arm, watching the Professor fumble with his pockets in front of a large metal cabinet in the corner of the room. Eventually, he pulled out a single key, which he shoved inside the little lock and twisted hastily, allowing him to open it and reveal an impressive array of guns. He snatched up a shotgun, suspended by pegs in the centre of the cabinet, and a box of shells from a shallow drawer beneath it.

He loaded his weapon, thrusted the remaining shells into one of his pockets, and marched towards the door.

Giving one last (oddly remorseful) look at Emma, the Professor muttered a faint, “Won’t be a moment,” before exiting the lab.

The silence was a little awkward.

Emma didn’t always feel the need to fill every silence, but that particular moment happened to be an exception.

“Why do you work with these people?” she asked the enigmatic Alistair.

He shrugged, replying after a moment, “Student loans.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

They fell silent for another minute. Then…

“…Any way I could convince you to untie me? We could grab a few guns and, I don’t know… shoot our way out?”

“Uhh…”

**_CRASH!_ **

*

Paul looked up at Xander as a movement caught his eye; Xander had raised his walkie talkie a second time, much sooner than expected, and pressed down the button.

“The Professor’s on his way,” he warned, “Be careful – he’s got a shotgun.”

 _“Copy that,”_ came a voice from the other end.

Paul counted 14 seconds before the alarm was silenced, and a further 24 seconds before the voice came again. _“Professor’s been secured – proceed with caution.”_

Xander and Turner both stood up, with Paul hesitantly following suit.

This was it.

Xander clasped his hand around the doorknob and gave each of the men a nod before turning it. They crept through the foyer in a line, guns at the ready. Paul kept his eyes fixed on the door as it grew closer. 20 steps away, then 10, then 3.

Again, Xander paused for a moment as he grabbed the handle, nodding for Turner to overtake Paul. Paul stepped back, not wanting to get in the way.

The door was opened, and Paul found himself back in that same dark, narrow corridor he had been in just 2 days ago, only he hadn’t known at that point just how sinister it would become to him.

At the third door, Turner, now at the head of their convoy, didn’t hesitate; he kicked the door open with a deafening crash.

Turner was in first, followed closely by Xander. His immediate cry of “LET GO OF HER,” sent Paul running in after them.

A man with a fearful expression was standing in the middle of the room, arms raised above his head. Turner continued barking instructions – “HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD, AGAINST THE WALL!” – as Paul clocked Emma.

Tied down.

A tube sticking out of her arm.

Staring back at him.

_Vulnerable._

_His wife. They had hurt his wife._

“Paul?” she mouthed. Her eyes were as disbelieving as they were scared.

He ran towards her, shoving his gun back into the holster of his vest.

“Emma, oh my God, Emma, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out of his mouth faster than he could comprehend what he was saying. He grappled with her ties as he spoke, barely noticing when Xander wordlessly appeared beside him to help.

“Paul, it’s okay,” Emma kept repeating, in her alarmingly faint voice. Gradually, the meaning of her words started to seep in, but it wasn’t until she was completely freed that he began to accept them. She tumbled into his arms and he clutched her to his chest, burying his face into her neck.

She was safe, she was there. He had her, he could hold her. He could smell her – she smelt the same as she had the first morning he woke up with her curled up against his side, when they embraced after she agreed to marry him, for every stolen touch and tender kiss, right the way to the other night when she had pulled him against her and supported him when he had been hit with the realisation of how fucked up their lives had become. After so much, they were together, with their lives ridiculously and impossibly entwined.

He stroked the back of her head and pressed a kiss to her temple, unable to stop himself. She did the same to him.

Their seconds-long embrace felt like a blissful eternity, and it was a pain to cut it short. Xander cleared his throat, and they pulled away from each other slightly to look at him.

“Emma,” he gestured to her arm, “We need to take this out. Why don’t you sit down?” She gave a slight nod. “The name’s Xander Lee,” he said, pulling over a swivel chair from behind a desk that sat next to a hauntingly familiar metal contraption. He shook it from his mind, needing to focus on Emma. She was pale, and the way that she moved as she sat down in the chair Xander provided was delicate, in a sense, slow and deliberate. She thanked him, then looked between the two agents, then back to Paul.

“I can’t believe you’re here – how did you find me?” She shifted uncomfortably as Xander removed the cannula from her arm, causing Paul to reach out.

“Long story – Emma… we heard you scream, what happened, are you okay?” He crouched down beside her, placing his hand over hers.

She shook her head. “I am now.” He gave her an odd sort of smile, but one genuine enough that it still pushed up the corners of her tired eyes.

“Turner,” said Xander, taping a cotton ball to Emma’s arm, “Has the suspect identified himself?”

Paul looked to see Turner pulling the man away from the wall by his hands, which he had handcuffed behind his back. The man made no attempt to struggle, which didn’t make Paul hate him any less.

“I’m Alistair Ross,” he said. “And before you take me anywhere, I think you should know that my life’s work is currently on _that_ computer screen-“ he jerked his head at the monitor in the corner, “-and the moment you’re finished doing whatever you need to do with it, all of it must be destroyed.”

_Huh._

“What is it?” Xander asked, stepping around Paul and Emma to face Alistair properly. Paul knelt down properly in front of her and tentatively brushed her hair away from her face before cupping her cheek. She leaned into his touch, reaching her own hand up to place it on top of his. They listened in to the rest of the conversation, but they kept their eyes on each other.

“The AI – it’s conscious, you can interface with it. I programmed it.”

“You worked with Dr. Fletcher?”

Alistair shrugged, despite not being able to move his arms much. “With, _for_ … look, I can tell you everything, just…”

“…Just what?” Xander asked.

Alistair winced. “Just make sure that lady never finds me.” Xander threw a quizzical look at Emma. “No!” He snapped his head back to Alistair. “Uh, I mean no, not her, the _other_ one, Schaeffer.” Alistair winced again, and addressed Emma. Paul almost wanted to stand in front of her, and he would’ve done so if the man’s face didn’t seem so pitying. “I was gonna say yes. To the… thing… I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

“That’s cool, Al,” she replied. She looked up at Xander. “Take it easy on him, he’s not so bad.” Paul looked back to restrained man, this time without the lens of immediate hatred. Clearly he had had the wrong impression; perhaps this was just another person swept up into someone else’s fight. And, given that Emma seemed to think well of him (and she had always been a good judge of character), he found it easy to forgive him almost instantly. After all, there were two other people he had no reservations over despising that were suitable candidates for blame.

Xander contemplated for a moment. “Well… we’ll discuss this more back at HQ. Turner, I need you to escort Mr. Ross here back to the main road, I’ll send word to Cross in a moment, there should be a van waiting by the time you get there. Mr. Ross, we’re taking you into custody, you’ll be kept at a safe distance until the area has been secured, after which you’ll be brought back in to assist with the removal of evidence.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the computer. Alistair nodded, showing no sign of fear. If anything, he seemed grateful. “As for you two, we’ll regroup with the others and wait for-“ He was cut off by the crackle of the radio.

As he pulled it out, Emma whispered, “Others?”

Paul leant in slightly to explain. “They’re called PEIP, they’ve been investigating Schaeffer – she used to work with them.”

“Jahku? Jahku? Jahk- Rachael, I can’t- I can’t understand you, slow down,” Xander ordered. The room fell silent.

Her voice was almost completely drowned out by static, but her words were both unmistakeable and chilling.

_“Man down, I repeat, man down!”_

*

As Professor Hidgens stumbled into view, clutching a shotgun, eyes darting wildly around the room, Branson immediately got the impression of someone completely out of their wits. He knelt down beside the open hatch, and peered inside.

 _“ALEXA,”_ he cried, “Turn off the alarm!” With that, the wailing stopped. “June?” He whispered into the tunnel. Hearing no reply, he made his way down the stairs, quietly calling out for Schaeffer as he went. Once Branson felt that the Professor had gone far enough, he emerged from the pantry a second time and closed the trapdoor. There was no obvious lock, so rather than try and find one, he simply stood on it to keep it from opening again. Jahku, having walked out of the cupboard after him, frowned at him as she pulled out her radio. “Professor’s been secured,” she murmured into it, “proceed with caution.” She dropped her arm and looked to Branson, just as he felt a few angry thumps vibrate through the trapdoor from underneath him. “You’re lucky that thing’s reinforced – if it wasn’t, he’d probably be able to shoot your feet off.”

He rolled his eyes. “Just- let me know when he steps away from the door, use your beepy thingy.” He waved his finger at her pocket.

“It doesn’t do that,” she huffed. _“So childish,”_ she added under her breath.

“What do you mean, _‘it doesn’t do that’?_ Pfft, lame.”

 _“You’re_ lame.”

“Now whose being childish?”

She made no comment to his retort; she was distracted, staring at the door that led to the greenhouse. He immediately knew what she was thinking.

The General should have made contact by now.

They both drew their firearms at the same time. The banging at Branson’s feet had stopped, and the trapdoor stayed shut when he stepped off of it, so he thought it safe to leave it.

Jahku led the way, pausing in front of the vault door to press her ear up against it. Branson did the same.

They heard nothing.

Jahku looked up at him. He nodded, stepping back to allow her to open it. He held up his gun, ready, as she unlocked the vault.

The moment the door was wide enough, light spilled into the shadowy greenhouse from the hall, bringing their attention straight to the body in the centre of the floor. They both new it was John, but also that they couldn’t simply go straight to him until they knew the area was safe.

Branson quickly scanned the area, forming a brief plan in his head. Then, getting Jahku’s attention, he signalled for her to walk around the right side of the room as he inspected the left. She nodded, confirming she understood him, and turned away to creep down one of the several winding, plant-lined paths. Branson did the same.

He found nothing; there was no sign of Schaeffer. It wasn’t until he reached the far end of the room that he heard a rustling in the leaves ahead, but that turned out to be Jahku.

“There’s no one here,” she stated at a normal volume, putting away her gun. “I found glass shards back there, and a panel in the ceiling’s been blown out – I think she climbed up the tree.”

He didn’t reply, but then he didn’t really need to. They ran back through the foliage to where John was, still showing no signs of movement. It was only then that Branson noticed the blood that covered the lower part of his face, and the splashes of deep indigo that had blossomed under his eyes. Both agents dropped to their knees either side of him, and Branson placed his two fingers on the General’s neck. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Found a pulse.” He started frantically patting his pockets, looking for something to wipe away the blood.

“I’ll call Xander,” said Jahku, standing back up again. She pulled out her radio, as well as a small, white handkerchief, which she thrust into his hand. He smiled, making a mental note to tell her she was old. He placed a hand on the side of John’s head to keep it still as he wiped away the blood from under his nose, but the sensation of something slightly sticky caused him to pull his hand away and inspect it. His fingers appeared to be covered in a black, tar-like substance, but it was only when he pulled his hand into the light that the rich crimson became visible. Touching the ground experimentally, Branson found a pool of blood – not large enough to cause a panic, but not small enough for him to dismiss it. Rather than tilt John’s head and risk injuring his neck, Branson pulled out his torch and used it to inspect the side of his head. There, within the matted clumps of blood-soaked hair, he found a barely noticeable, somewhat curved gash. He pressed the cloth against it. It was a familiar enough injury, one he had seen many times before, but it made him think.

John’s own gun was still in his holster, and Schaeffer’s was nowhere to be found, meaning she still had it. What’s more, John would have had his gun out when he faced her, meaning she convinced him to put away. She got him to drop his guard, then took him out mercilessly.

Whatever happened, Branson was now convinced that June Schaeffer could never be reasoned with.

*

“Everyone, we have to move – Emma, are you alright to walk?”

Emma nodded, not wanted to waste the military-guy’s time with responding (she felt bad for having already forgotten his name, but then she could always quietly ask Paul). He seemed genuinely afraid, something she imagined he didn’t express often.

Something brushed under her arm, and looking up, she could see Paul moving to help her stand. She accepted his help; her legs still felt weird from all the twitching, and her stomach ached every time she tried to move.

“Cross!” Xander half-shouted. Emma looked back at him to see him holding his phone to his head. “We need backup, immediately – John’s down, alive but in need of a medic, we have one suspect detained, one should be in the Hatchetfield powerplant – armed and dangerous – and Schaeffer’s missing, also armed and dangerous…” He listened to the voice on the other end. “… Yes, sir… we’re just about to…”

As they waited, Emma glanced from the still wide-open cabinet in the corner to the gun tucked into Paul’s vest, then back to the cabinet. Figuring she might as well, Emma tapped the hand that was supporting her arm and walked over to it. There was a leather shoulder holster that caught her eye, and without thinking she took it up and strapped it on. She also picked up what looked to be a basic Beretta that was suspended right next to the empty shotgun space. It felt a little light, and a quick check of the barrel showed that it was empty, so she pulled open the drawer as someone came up behind her.

“What are you doing?” Paul whispered into her ear.

“I don’t see why you get one and I don’t,” she whispered back. Once she found the right ammo, she continued. “Besides, I’m not going unarmed with that crazy fuckin’ bitch running around. I still owe her a couple.” She punctuated her last word by smacking the cartridge into place.

“…Fair enough.”

“Alright, let’s move,” Xander announced, pulling open the door. “You two-” he pointed at Paul and Emma, doing a slight double take at the update she had made to her outfit before shaking his head, “-follow behind me, Turner you bring up the rear with _him,_ we’re gonna go quickly and quietly, so stay close.”

*

Xander wasn’t scared. Xander _wasn’t_ scared. He couldn’t _afford_ to be scared.

He had known John for years; the man was indestructible.

There was nothing to be scared about.

He would be completely professional. No emotions were going to get in his way. He would not let his priorities be compromised or confused, especially with 2 civilians under his protection.

_Focus on the mission at hand._

_Nothing else matters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You okay there Xander? guys I think he's scared for his boo. just a hunch)  
> Also I would like to make it clear that John didn't exactly fall for June's manipulation, he just let his guard down for a moment when going to cuff her and that was all June needed. That bitch.  
> Also Paul's in love and Emma's a badass and visa versa thank you
> 
> Let me know if anything needs clarification


End file.
